THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


j? 


JASON 


A   ROMANCE 


BY 

JUSTUS  MILES  FORMAN 

AUTHOR  OF 

"  A  STUMBLING  BLOCK  "  "  BUCHANAN'S  WIFE  " 
"THE  ISLAND  OF  ENCHANTMENT" 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
.    HATHERELL,    R.    I. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND   LONDON 
MCM  IX 


BOOKS  BY 
JUSTUS  MILES  FORMAN 

JASON 

BUCHANAN'S  WIFE 

A  STUMBLING  BLOCK 

THE  ISLAND  OF  ENCHANTMENT 

THE  GARDEN  OF  LIES 

JOURNEY'S  END 

MONSIGNY 

TOMMY  CARTERET 


Copyright,  1908,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 


All  rights  reserved. 
Published  May,  1909. 


PS 

•5511 


A    PARIS 

MERE    MYSTERIEUSE  .    .    .  SCEUR    CONSOLATR1CE 

ENCHANTERESSE    AUX    YEUX    VOILES 

JE     DEDIE     CE     PETIT     ROMAN 

EN    RECONNAISSANCE 

J.    M.    F._. 


2229156 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. 


I.  STE.    MARIE    HEARS   OF   A   MYSTERY   AND 

MEETS  A  DARK  LADY i 

II.  THE  LADDER  TO  THE  STARS 15 

III.  STE.  MARIE  MAKES  A  Vow,  BUT  A  PAIR  OF 

EYES  HAUNT  HIM 26 

IV.  OLD  DAVID  STEWART 36 

V.  JASON  SETS  FORTH  UPON  THE  GREAT  AD 

VENTURE 47 

VI.  A  BRAVE  GENTLEMAN  RECEIVES  A  HURT, 

BUT  VOLUNTEERS  IN  A  GOOD  CAUSE     .  63 

VII.  CAPTAIN  STEWART  MAKES  A  KINDLY  OFFER  74 

VIII.  JASON  MEETS  WITH  A  MISADVENTURE  AND 

DREAMS  A  DREAM 84 

IX.  JASON  GOES  UPON  A  JOURNEY,  AND  RICHARD 

HARTLEY  PLEADS  FOR  HIM      ....  95 

X.  CAPTAIN  STEWART  ENTERTAINS      .     .     .     .  in 

XI.  A  GOLDEN  LADY  ENTERS — THE  EYES  AGAIN  124 

XII.  THE  NAME  OF  THE  LADY  WITH  THE  EYES — 

EVIDENCE  HEAPS  UP  SWIFTLY    .    .    .  141 

XIII.  THE  VOYAGE  TO  COLCHIS 154 

XIV.  THE  WALLS  OF  AEA  168 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. 

XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 

XXII. 

XXIII. 

XXIV. 

XXV. 

XXVI. 

XXVII. 

XXVIII. 

XXIX. 

XXX. 


A  CONVERSATION  AT  LA  LIERRE      .     .     . 

THE  BLACK  CAT 

THOSE  WHO  WERE  LEFT  BEHIND  .  .  . 
A  CONVERSATION  OVERHEARD  .... 
THE  INVALID  TAKES  THE  AIR  .... 
THE  STONE  BENCH  AT  THE  ROND  POINT 
A  MIST  DIMS  THE  SHINING  STAR 


178 
189 
204 
217 
231 

239 
249 


A  SETTLEMENT  REFUSED 258 

THE  LAST  ARROW 268 

THE  JOINT  IN  THE  ARMOR 282 

MEDEA  GOES  OVER  TO  THE  ENEMY     .     .  290 

BUT  THE  FLEECE  ELECTS  TO  REMAIN      .  302 

THE  NIGHT'S  WORK       317 

MEDEA'S  LITTLE  HOUR 326 

THE  SCALES  OF  INJUSTICE 337 

JASON  SAILS  BACK  TO  COLCHIS — JOURNEY'S 

END 351 


MLLE.  COIRA  O  HARA  SAT  ALONE  UPON  THE 

STONE    BENCH Frontispiece 

"THE  FAMILY  is  IN  GREAT  DISTRESS  OF  MIND 

OVER    THE    DISAPPEARANCE    OF    MY    YOUNG 

NEPHEW" Facing  p.    28 

HE     SAW     CAPTAIN     STEWART     MOVING     AMONG 

THEM "         I2O 

CAPTAIN  STEWART  LAY  HUDDLED  AND  WRITH 
ING  UPON  THE  FLOOR "  134 

THERE  APPEARED  TWO  YOUNG  PEOPLE  MOVING 

SLOWLY  IN  THE  DIRECTION  OF  THE  HOUSE  "  172 

"TELL  ME  ABOUT  HIM,  THIS  STE.  MARIE!  DO 

YOU  KNOW  ANYTHING  ABOUT  HIM  ?"  .  .  "  228 

HIS  HAND  WENT  SWIFTLY  TO  HIS  COAT-POCKET  262 

THE  GIRL  FUMBLED  DESPERATELY  WITH  THE 

CLUMSY  KEY "  322 


JASON 


JASON 


STE.  MARIE  HEARS  OF  A  MYSTERY  AND  MEETS  A  DARK  LADY 

T^ROM  Ste.  Marie's  little  flat,  which  overlooked  the 
1  gardens,  they  drove  down  the  quiet  rue  du  Luxem 
bourg,  and  at  the  Place  St.  Sulpice  turned  to  the  left. 
They  crossed  the  Place  St.  Germain  des  Pres,  where  lines 
of  home-bound  working-people  stood  waiting  for  places  in 
the  electric  trams,  and  groups  of  students  from  the  Beaux 
Arts  or  from  Julien's  sat  under  the  awnings  of  the  Deux 
Magots,  and  so,  beyond  that  busy  square,  they  came  into 
the  long  and  peaceful  stretch  of  the  Boulevard  St.  Ger 
main.  The  warm,  sweet  dusk  gathered  round  them  as 
they  went,  and  the  evening  air  was  fresh  and  aromatic  in 
their  faces.  There  had  been  a  little  gentle  shower  in  the 
late  afternoon,  and  roadway  and  pavement  were  still 
damp  with  it.  It  had  wet  the  new-grown  leaves  of  the 
chestnuts  and  acacias  that  bordered  the  street.  The 
scent  of  that  living  green  blended  with  the  scent  of  laid 
dust  and  the  fragrance  of  the  last  late-clinging  chestnut 
blossoms;  it  caught  up  a  fuller,  richer  burden  from  the  over 
flowing  front  of  a  florist's  shop;  it  stole  from  open  windows 
a  savory  whiff  of  cooking,  a  salt  tang  of  wood  smoke;  and 

I 


JASON 

the  soft  little  breeze— the  breeze  of  coming  summer— mixed 
all  together  and  tossed  them  and  bore  them  down  the  long, 
quiet  street;  and  it  was  the  breath  of  Paris,  and  it  shall  be 
in  your  nostrils  and  mine,  a  keen  agony  of  sweetness,  so 
long  as  we  may  live  and  so  wide  as  we  may  wander— be 
cause  we  have  known  it  and  loved  it — and  in  the  end  we 
shall  go  back  to  breathe  it  when  we  die. 

The  strong  white  horse  jogged  evenly  along  over  the 
wooden  pavement,  its  head  down,  the  little  bell  at  its  neck 
jingling  pleasantly  as  it  went.  The  cocher,  a  torpid,  pur 
plish  lump  of  gross  flesh,  pyramidal,  pearlike,  sat  immobile 
in  his  place.  The  protuberant  back  gave  hii  i  an  extraor 
dinary  effect  of  being  buttoned  into  his  fawn-colored  coat 
wrong  side  before.  At  intervals  he  jerked  the  reins  like 
a  large  strange  toy,  and  his  strident  voice  said: 

"He!"  to  the  stout  white  horse,  which  paid  no  attention 
whatever.  Once  the  beast  stumbled  and  the  pearlike  lump 
of  flesh  insulted  it,  saying: 

"He!  veux  tu,  cochon!" 

Before  the  War  Office  a  little  black  slip  of  a  milliner's 
girl  dodged  under  the  horse's  head,  saving  herself  and  the 
huge  box  slung  to  her  arm  by  a  miracle  of  agility,  and  the 
cocher  called  her  the  most  frightful  names,  without  turn 
ing  his  head  and  in  a  perfunctory  tone  quite  free  from 
passion. 

Young  Hartley  laughed  and  turned  to  look  at  his  com 
panion,  but  Ste.  Marie  sat  still  in  his  place,  his  hat  pulled 
a  little  down  over  his  brows  and  his  handsome  chin  buried 
in  the  folds  of  the  white  silk  muffler  with  which  for  some 
obscure  reason  he  had  swathed  his  neck. 

"This  is  the  first  time  in  many  years,"  said  the  English 
man,  "that  I  have  known  you  to  be  silent  for  ten  whole 

2 


JASON 

minutes.     Are  you  ill,  or  are  you  making  up  little  epigrams 
to  say  at  the  dinner-party  ?" 

Ste.  Marie  waved  a  despondent  glove. 

"I  'ave,"  said  he,  "w'at  you  call  ze  blue.  Papillons 
noirs — clouds  in  my  soul."  It  was  a  species  of  jest  with 
Ste.  Marie — and  he  seemed  never  to  tire  of  it — to  pretend 
that  he  spoke  English  very  brokenly.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
he  spoke  it  quite  as  well  as  any  Englishman  and  without  the 
slightest  trace  of  accent.  He  had  discovered  a  long  time 
before  this — it  may  have  been  while  the  two  were  at  Eton 
together — that  it  annoyed  Hartley  very  much,  particularly 
when  it  was  done  in  company  and  before  strangers.  In 
consequence  he  became  on  such  occasions  a  sort  of  comic- 
paper  caricature  of  his  race,  and  by  dint  of  much  practice, 
added  to  a  naturally  alert  mind,  he  became  astonishingly 
ingenious  in  the  torture  of  that  honest  but  unimagina 
tive  gentleman  whom  he  considered  his  best  friend.  He 
achieved  the  most  surprising  expressions  by  the  mere  literal 
translation  of  French  idiom,  and  he  could  at  anytime  bring 
Hartley  to  a  crimson  agony  by  calling  him  "my  dear"  before 
other  men,  whereas  at  the  equivalent  "mon  cher"  the  Eng 
lishman  would  doubtless  never,  as  the  phrase  goes,  have 
batted  an  eye. 

"Ye-es,"  he  continued,  sadly,  "I  'ave  ze  blue.  I  weep. 
Weez  ze  tears  full  ze  eyes.  Yes."  He  descended  into  Eng 
lish.  "I  think  something's  going  to  happen  to  me.  There's 
calamity,  or  something,  in  the  air.  Perhaps  I'm  going  to 
die." 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  do,  right  enough," 
said  the  other  man.  "You're  going  to  meet  the  most  beau 
tiful  woman — girl — in  the  world  at  dinner,  and  of  course 
you  are  going  to  fall  in  love  with  her." 

3 


JASON 

"Ah,  the  Miss  Benham!"  said  Ste.  Marie,  with  a  faint 
show  of  interest.  "  I  remember  now,  you  said  that  she  was 
to  be  there.  I  had  forgotten.  Yes,  I  shall  be  glad  to  meet 
her.  One  hears  so  much.  But  why  am  I  of  course  going 
to  fall  in  love  with  her  ?" 

"Well,  in  the  first  place,"  said  Hartley,  "you  always  fall 
in  love  with  all  pretty  women  as  a  matter  of  habit,  and,  in 
the  second  place,  everybody — well,  I  suppose  you — no  one 
could  help  falling  in  love  with  her,  I  should  think." 

"That's  high  praise  to  come  from  you,"  said  the  other. 
And  Hartley  said,  with  a  short,  not  very  mirthful  laugh: 

"Oh,  I  don't  pretend  to  be  immune.  We  all — every 
body  who  knows  her.  You'll  understand  presently." 

Ste.  Marie  turned  his  head  a  little  and  looked  curiously 
at  his  friend,  for  he  considered  that  he  knew  the  not  very 
expressive  intonations  of  that  young  gentleman's  voice 
rather  well,  and  this  was  something  unusual.  He  won 
dered  what  had  been  happening  during  his  six  months'  ab 
sence  from  Paris. 

"I  dare  say  that's  what  I  feel  in  the  air,  then,"  he  said, 
after  a  little  pause.  "It's  not  calamity;  it's  love. 

"Or  maybe,"  he  said,  quaintly,  "it's  both.  L'un  n'em- 
peche  pas  1'autre."  And  he  gave  an  odd  little  shiver,  as 
if  that  something  in  the  air  had  suddenly  blown  chill  upon 
him. 

They  were  passing  the  corner  of  the  Chamber  of  Depu 
ties,  which  faces  the  Pont  de  la  Concorde.  Ste.  Marie 
pulled  out  his  watch  and  looked  at  it. 

"Eight-fifteen,"  said  he.  "What  time  are  we  asked  for — 
eight-thirty?  That  means  nine.  It's  an  English  house, 
and  nobody  will  be  on  time.  It's  out  of  fashion  to  be 
prompt  nowadays." 

4 


JASON 

"I  should  hardly  call  the  Marquis  de  Saulnes  English, 
you  know,"  objected  Hartley. 

"Well,  his  wife  is,"  said  the  other,  "and  they're  alto 
gether  English  in  manner.  Dinner  won't  be  before  nine. 
Shall  we  get  out,  and  walk  across  the  bridge  and  up  the 
Champs-Elysees  ?  I  should  like  to,  I  think.  I  like  to 
walk  at  this  time  of  the  evening — between  the  daylight 
and  the  dark."  Hartley  nodded  a  rather  reluctant  assent, 
and  Ste.  Marie  prodded  the  pear-shaped  cocher  in  the 
back  with  his  stick.  So  they  got  down  at  the  approach  to 
the  bridge,  Ste.  Marie  gave  the  cocher  a  piece  of  two  francs, 
and  they  turned  away  on  foot.  The  pear-shaped  one  look 
ed  at  the  coin  in  his  fat  hand  as  if  it  were  something  unclean 
and  contemptible — something  to  be  despised.  He  glanced 
at  the  dial  of  his  taximeter,  which  had  registered  one  franc 
twenty-five,  and  pulled  the  flag  up.  He  spat  gloomily  out 
into  the  street,  and  his  purple  lips  moved  in  words.  He 
seemed  to  say  something  like  "Sale  diable  de  metier!" 
which,  considering  the  fact  that  he  had  just  been  over 
paid,  appears  unwarrantably  pessimistic  in  tone.  There 
after  he  spat  again,  picked  up  his  reins  and  jerked  them, 
saying: 

"He,  Jean  Baptiste!  Uip,  uip!"  The  unemotional 
white  horse  turned  up  the  boulevard,  trotting  evenly  at  its 
steady  pace,  head  down,  the  little  bell  at  its  neck  jingling 
pleasantly  as  it  went.  It  occurs  to  me  that  the  white  horse 
was  probably  unique.  I  doubt  that  there  was  another 
horse  in  Paris  rejoicing  in  that  extraordinary  name. 

But  the  two  young  men  walked  slowly  on  across  the  Pont 
de  la  Concorde.  They  went  in  silence,  for  Hartley  was 
thinking  still  of  Miss  Helen  Benham,  and  Ste.  Marie  was 
thinking  of  Heaven  knows  what.  His  gloom  was  unac- 

5 


JASON 

countable  unless  he  had  really  meant  what  he  said  about 
feeling  calamity  in  the  air.  It  was  very  unlike  him  to  have 
nothing  to  say.  Midway  of  the  bridge  he  stopped  and 
turned  to  look  out  over  the  river,  and  the  other  man  halted 
beside  him.  The  dusk  was  thickening  almost  perceptibly, 
but  it  was  yet  far  from  dark.  The  swift  river  ran  leaden 
beneath  them,  and  the  river  boats,  mouches  and  hirondelles, 
darted  silently  under  the  arches  of  the  bridge,  making  their 
last  trips  for  the  day.  Away  to  the  west,  where  their  faces 
were  turned,  the  sky  was  still  faintly  washed  with  color, 
lemon  and  dusky  orange  and  pale  thin  green.  A  single  long 
strip  of  cirrus  cloud  was  touched  with  pink,  a  lifeless  old 
rose,  such  as  is  popular  among  decorators  for  the  silk  hang 
ings  of  a  woman's  boudoir.  And  black  against  this  pallid 
wash  of  colors  the  tour  Eiffel  stood  high  and  slender  and 
rather  ghostly.  By  day  it  is  an  ugly  thing,  a  preposterous 
iron  finger  upthrust  by  man's  vanity  against  God's  serene 
sky;  but  the  haze  of  evening  drapes  it  in  a  merciful  semi- 
obscurity  and  it  is  beautiful. 

Ste.  Marie  leaned  upon  the  parapet  of  the  bridge,  arms 
folded  before  him  and  eyes  afar.  He  began  to  sing,  a  demi- 
voix,  a  little  phrase  out  of  Louise — an  invocation  to  Paris 
— and  the  Englishman  stirred  uneasily  beside  him.  It 
seemed  to  Hartley  that  to  stand  on  a  bridge,  in  a  top-hat 
and  evening  clothes,  and  sing  operatic  airs  while  people 
passed  back  and  forth  behind  you,  was  one  of  the  things 
that  are  not  done.  He  tried  to  imagine  himself  singing 
in  the  middle  of  Westminster  Bridge  at  half-past  eight  of 
an  evening,  and  he  felt  quite  hot  all  over  at  the  thought. 
It  was  not  done  at  all,  he  said  to  himself.  He  looked  a 
little  nervously  at  the  people  who  were  passing,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  they  stared  at  him  and  at  the  uncon- 

6 


JASON 

scious  Ste.  Marie,  though  in  truth  they  did  nothing  of  the 
sort.  He  turned  back  and  touched  his  friend  on  the  arm, 
saying: 

"I  think  we'd  best  be  getting  along,  you  know."  But 
Ste.  Marie  was  very  far  away,  and  did  not  hear.  So  then 
he  fell  to  watching  the  man's  dark  and  handsome  face, 
and  to  thinking  how  little  the  years  at  Eton  and  the  year 
or  two  at  Oxford  had  set  any  real  stamp  upon  him.  He 
would  never  be  anything  but  Latin,  in  spite  of  his  Irish 
mother  and  his  public  school.  Hartley  thought  what  a 
pity  that  was.  As  Englishmen  go,  he  was  not  illiberal, 
but,  no  more  than  he  could  have  altered  the  color  of  his 
eyes,  could  he  have  believed  that  anything  foreign  would 
not  be  improved  by  becoming  English.  That  was  born  in 
him,  as  it  is  born  in  most  Englishmen,  and  it  was  a  perfect 
ly  simple  and  honest  belief.  He  felt  a  deeper  affection  for 
this  handsome  and  volatile  young  man  whom  all  women 
loved,  and  who  bade  fair  to  spend  his  life  at  their  successive 
feet — for  he  certainly  had  never  shown  the  slightest  desire 
to  take  up  any  sterner  employment — he  felt  a  deeper  affec 
tion  for  Ste.  Marie  than  for  any  other  man  he  knew,  but 
he  had  always  wished  that  Ste.  Marie  were  an  Englishman, 
and  he  had  always  felt  a  slight  sense  of  shame  over  his 
friend's  un-English  ways. 

After  a  moment  he  touched  him  again  on  the  arm, 
saying: 

"Come  along!  We  shall  be  late,  you  know.  You  can 
finish  your  little  concert  another  time." 

"Eh!"  cried  Ste.  Marie.  "Quoi,  done?"  He  turned 
with  a  start. 

"Oh  yes!"  said  he.  "Yes,  come  along!  I  was  moon 
ing.  Aliens!  Aliens,  my  old!"  He  took  Hartley's  arm 

7 


JASON 

and  began  to  shove  him  along  at  a  rapid  walk.  "I  will 
moon  no  more,"  he  said.  "Instead,  you  shall  tell  me 
about  the  wonderful  Miss  Benham  whom  everybody  is 
talking  about.  Isn't  there  something  odd  connected  with 
the  family  ?  I  vaguely  recall  something  unusual  —  some 
mystery  or  misfortune  or  something.  But  first  a  moment! 
One  small  moment,  my  old.  Regard  me  that!"  They  had 
come  to  the  end  of  the  bridge,  and  the  great  Place  de  la 
Concorde  lay  before  them. 

"In  all  the  world,"  said  Ste.  Marie — and  he  spoke  the 
truth — "there  is  not  another  such  square.  Regard  it,  mon 
brave!  Bow  yourself  before  it!  It  is  a  miracle." 

The  great  bronze  lamps  were  alight,  and  they  cast  re 
flections  upon  the  still  damp  pavement  about  them.  To 
either  side,  the  trees  of  the  Tuileries  gardens  and  of  the 
Cours  la  Reine  and  the  Champs-Elysees  lay  in  a  solid  black 
mass;  in  the  middle,  the  obelisk  rose  slender  and  straight, 
its  pointed  top  black  against  the  sky;  and  beneath,  the  water 
of  the  Nereid  fountains  splashed  and  gurgled.  Far  beyond, 
the  gay  lights  of  the  rue  Royale  shone  in  a  yellow  cluster; 
and  beyond  these  still,  the  tall  columns  of  the  Madeleine 
ended  the  long  vista.  Pedestrians  and  cabs  crept  across 
that  vast  space  and  seemed  curiously  little,  like  black  in 
sects,  and  round  about  it  all  the  eight  cities  of  France  sat 
atop  their  stone  pedestals  and  looked  on.  Ste.  Marie  gave 
a  little  sigh  of  pleasure,  and  the  two  moved  forward,  bear 
ing  to  the  left,  toward  the  Champs-Elysees. 

"And  now,"  said  he,  "about  these  Benhams.  What  is 
the  thing  I  cannot  quite  recall  ?  What  has  happened  to 
them  ?" 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  other  man,  "you  mean  the  dis 
appearance  of  Miss  Benham's  young  brother  a  month  ago 

8 


JASON 

— before  you  returned  to  Paris.  Yes,  that  was  certainly 
very  odd — that  is,  it  was  either  very  odd  or  very  common 
place.  And  in  either  case  the  family  is  terribly  cut  up  about 
it.  The  boy's  name  was  Arthur  Benham,  and  he  was  rather 
a  young  fool,  but  not  downright  vicious,  I  should  think.  I 
never  knew  him  at  all  well,  but  I  know  he  spent  his  time 
chiefly  at  the  Cafe  de  Paris  and  at  the  Olympia  and  at 
Longchamps  and  at  Henry's  Bar.  Well,  he  just  disap 
peared,  that  is  all.  He  dropped  completely  out  of  sight 
between  two  days,  and  though  the  family  has  had  a  small 
army  of  detectives  on  his  trail  they've  not  discovered  the 
smallest  clew.  It's  deuced  odd  altogether.  You  might 
think  it  easy  to  disappear  like  that,  but  it's  not." 

"No— no,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  thoughtfully.  "No,  I  should 
fancy  not. 

"This  boy,"  he  said,  after  a  pause — "I  think  I  had  seen 
him — had  him  pointed  out  to  me — before  I  went  away.  I 
think  it  was  at  Henry's  Bar,  where  all  the  young  Americans 
go  to  drink  strange  beverages.  I  am  quite  sure  I  remember 
his  face.  A  weak  face,  but  not  quite  bad." 

And  after  another  little  pause  he  asked: 

"Was  there  any  reason  why  he  should  have  gone  away — 
any  quarrel  or  that  sort  of  thing  ?" 

"Well,"  said  the  other  man,  "I  rather  think  there  was 
something  of  the  sort.  The  boy's  uncle — Captain  Stewart — 
middle-aged,  rather  prim  old  party — you'll  have  met  him, 
I  dare  say  —  he  intimated  to  me  one  day  that  there  had 
been  some  trivial  row.  You  see,  the  lad  isn't  of  age  yet, 
though  he  is  to  be  in  a  few  months,  and  so  he  has  had  to 
live  on  an  allowance  doled  out  by  his  grandfather,  who's 
the  head  of  the  house.  The  boy's  father  is  dead.  There's 
a  quaint  old  beggar,  if  you  like — the  grandfather.  He  was 

9 


JASON 

rather  a  swell  in  the  diplomatic,  in  his  day,  it  seems — rather 
an  important  swell.  Now  he's  bedridden.  He  sits  all 
day  in  bed  and  plays  cards  with  his  granddaughter  or  with 
a  very  superior  valet,  and  talks  politics  with  the  men  who 
come  to  see  him.  Oh  yes,  he's  a  quaint  old  beggar.  He 
has  a  great  quantity  of  white  hair  and  an  enormous  square 
white  beard  and  the  fiercest  eyes  I  ever  saw,  I  should  think. 
Everybody's  frightened  out  of  their  wits  of  him.  Well,  he 
sits  up  there  and  rules  his  family  in  good  old  patriarchal 
style,  and  it  seems  he  came  down  a  bit  hard  on  the  poor  boy 
one  day  over  some  folly  or  other,  and  there  was  a  row  and 
the  boy  went  out  of  the  house  swearing  he'd  be  even." 

"Ah,  well,  then,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  "the  matter  seems 
simple  enough.  A  foolish  boy's  foolish  pique.  He  is 
staying  in  hiding  somewhere  to  frighten  his  grandfather. 
When  he  thinks  the  time  favorable  he  will  come  back  and 
be  wept  over  and  forgiven." 

The  other  man  walked  a  little  way  in  silence. 

"Ye-es,"  he  said,  at  last.  "Yes,  possibly.  Possibly  you 
are  right.  That's  what  the  grandfather  thinks.  It's  the 
obvious  solution.  Unfortunately  there  is  more  or  less 
against  it.  The  boy  went  away  with— so  far  as  can  be 
learned— almost  no  money,  almost  none  at  all.  And  he 
has  already  been  gone  a  month.  Miss  Benham,  his  sister, 
is  sure  that  something  has  happened  to  him,  and  I'm  a 
bit  inclined  to  think  so,  too.  It's  all  very  odd.  I  should  ' 
think  he  might  have  been  kidnapped  but  that  no  demand 
has  been  made  for  money." 

"He  was  not,"  suggested  Ste.  Marie— "not  the  sort  of 
young  man  to  do  anything  desperate  —  make  away  with 
himself?"  Hartley  laughed. 

"Oh,  Lord,  no!"  said  he.     "Not  that  sort  of  young  man 

10 


JASON 

at  all.  He  was  a  very  normal  type  of  rich  and  spoiled  and 
somewhat  foolish  American  boy." 

"Rich  ?"  inquired  the  other,  quickly. 

"Oh  yes;  they're  beastly  rich.  Young  Arthur  is  to 
come  into  something  very  good  at  his  majority,  I  believe, 
from  his  father's  estate,  and  the  old  grandfather  is  said  to 
be  indecently  rich — rolling  in  it!  There's  another  reason 
why  the  young  idiot  wouldn't  be  likely  to  stop  away  of  his 
own  accord.  He  wouldn't  risk  anything  like  a  serious 
break  with  the  old  gentleman.  It  would  mean  a  loss  of 
millions  to  him,  I  dare  say,  for  the  old  beggar  is  quite  ca 
pable  of  cutting  him  off  if  he  takes  the  notion.  Oh,  it's  a 
bad  business  all  through." 

And  after  they  had  gone  on  a  bit  he  said  it  again,  shak 
ing  his  head: 

"It's  a  bad  business!  That  poor  girl,  you  know.  It's 
hard  on  her.  She  was  fond  of  the  young  ass  for  some 
reason  or  other.  She's  very  much  broken  up  over  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  "it  is  hard  for  her — for  all  the 
family,  of  course.  A  bad  business,  as  you  say."  He  spoke 
absently,  for  he  was  looking  ahead  at  something  which 
seemed  to  be  a  motor  accident.  They  had  by  this  time  got 
well  up  the  Champs-Elysees  and  were  crossing  the  Rond 
Point.  A  motor-car  was  drawn  up  alongside  the  curb  just 
beyond,  and  a  little  knot  of  people  stood  about  it  and  seemed 
to  look  at  something  on  the  ground. 

"I  think  some  one  has  been  run  down,"  said  Ste.  Marie. 
"Shall  we  have  a  look?"  They  quickened  their  pace  and 
came  to  where  the  group  of  people  stood  in  a  circle  looking 
upon  the  ground,  and  two  gendarmes  asked  many  ques 
tions  and  wrote  voluminously  in  their  little  books.  It  ap 
peared  that  a  delivery  boy  mounted  upon  a  tricycle  cart 

II 


JASON 

had  turned  into  the  wrong  side  of  the  avenue  and  had  got 
himself  run  into  and  overturned  by  a  motor-car  going  at 
a  moderate  rate  of  speed.  For  once  the  sentiment  of 
those  mysterious  birds  of  prey  which  flock  instantaneously 
from  nowhere  round  an  accident,  was  against  the  victim 
and  in  favor  of  the  frightened  and  gesticulating  chauf 
feur. 

Ste.  Marie  turned  an  amused  face  from  this  voluble 
being  to  the  other  occupants  of  the  patently  hired  car,  who 
stood  apart,  adding  very  little  to  the  discussion.  He  saw 
a  tall  and  bony  man  with  very  bright  blue  eyes  and  what 
is  sometimes  called  a  guardsman's  mustache — the  droop 
ing,  walruslike  ornament  which  dates  back  a  good  many 
years  now.  Beyond  this  gentleman  he  saw  a  young  woman 
in  a  long,  gray  silk  coat  and  a  motoring  veil.  He  was  aware 
that  the  tall  man  was  staring  at  him  rather  fixedly  and  with 
a  half-puzzled  frown,  as  though  he  thought  that  they  had 
met  before  and  was  trying  to  remember  when,  but  Ste. 
Marie  gave  the  man  but  a  swift  glance.  His  eyes  were 
upon  the  dark  face  of  the  young  woman  beyond,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  she  called  aloud  to  him  in  an  actual 
voice  that  rang  in  his  ears.  The  young  woman's  very 
obvious  beauty,  he  thought,  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
matter.  It  seemed  to  him  that  her  eyes  called  him.  Just 
that.  Something  strange  and  very  potent  seemed  to  take 
sudden  and  almost  tangible  hold  upon  him — a  charm,  a 
spell,  a  magic — something  unprecedented,  new  to  his  ex 
perience.  He  could  not  take  his  eyes  from  hers,  and  he 
stood  staring. 

As  before,  on  the  Pont  de  la  Concorde,  Hartley  touched 
him  on  the  arm,  and  abruptly  the  chains  that  had  bound 
him  were  loosened. 

12 


JASON 

"We  must  be  going  on,  you  know,"  the  Englishman 
said,  and  Ste.  Marie  said,  rather  hurriedly: 

"Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure!  Come  along!"  But  at  a  little 
distance  he  turned  once  more  to  look  back.  The  chauffeur 
had  mounted  to  his  place,  the  delivery  boy  was  upon  his 
feet  again,  little  the  worse  for  his  tumble,  and  the  knot  of 
bystanders  had  begun  to  disperse,  but  it  seemed  to  Ste. 
Marie  that  the  young  woman  in  the  long  silk  coat  stood  quite 
still  where  she  had  been,  and  that  her  face  was  turned  tow 
ard  him,  watching. 

"Did  you  notice  that  girl  ?"  said  Hartley,  as  they  walked 
on  at  a  brisker  pace.  "  Did  you  see  her  face  ?  She  was 
rather  a  tremendous  beauty,  you  know,  in  her  gypsyish 
fashion.  Yes,  by  Jove,  she  was!" 

"Did  I  see  her?"  repeated  Ste.  Marie.  "Yes.  Oh 
yes.  She  had  very  strange  eyes.  At  least,  I  think  it  was 
the  eyes.  I  don't  know.  I've  never  seen  any  eyes  quite 
like  them.  Very  odd!" 

He  said  something  more  in  French  which  Hartley  did 
not  hear,  and  the  Englishman  saw  that  he  was  frown 
ing. 

"Oh,  well,  I  shouldn't  have  said  there  was  anything 
strange  about  them,"  Hartley  said;  "but  they  certainly 
were  beautiful.  There's  no  denying  that.  The  man  with 
her  looked  rather  Irish,  I  thought." 

They  came  to  the  Etoile,  and  cut  across  it  toward  the 
Avenue  Hoche.  Ste.  Marie  glanced  back  once  more,  but 
the  motor-car  and  the  delivery  boy  and  the  gendarmes  were 
gone. 

"What  did  you  say  ?"  he  asked,  idly. 

"I  said  the  man  looked  Irish,"  repeated  his  friend.  All 
at  once  Ste.  Marie  gave  a  loud  exclamation. 

13 


JASON 

"Sacred  thousand  devils!  Fool  that  I  am!  Dolt!  Why 
didn't  I  think  of  it  before  ?" 

Hartley  stared  at  him,  and  Ste.  Marie  stared  down  the 
Champs-Elysees  like  one  in  a  trance. 

"I  say,"  said  the  Englishman,  "we  really  must  be  getting 
on,  you  know;  we're  late."  And  as  they  went  along  down 
the  Avenue  Hoche,  he  demanded:  "Why  are  you  a  dolt 
and  whatever  else  it  was  ?  What  struck  you  so  suddenly  ?" 

"I  remembered  all  at  once,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  "where  I 
had  seen  that  man  before  and  with  whom  I  last  saw  him. 
I'll  tell  you  about  it  later.  Probably  it's  of  no  importance, 
though." 

"You're  talking  rather  like  a  mild  lunatic,"  said  the 
other.  "Here  we  are  at  the  house!" 


II 

THE    LADDER  TO  THE    STARS 

M^SS  BENHAM  was  talking  wearily  to  a  strange,  fair 
youth  with  an  impediment  in  his  speech,  and  was 
wondering  why  the  youth  had  been  asked  to  this  house, 
where  in  general  one  was  sure  of  meeting  only  interesting 
people,  when  some  one  spoke  her  name,  and  she  turned 
with  a  little  sigh  of  relief.  It  was  Baron  de  Vries,  the 
Belgian  First  Secretary  of  Legation,  an  old  friend  of  her 
grandfather's,  a  man  made  gentle  and  sweet  by  infinite 
sorrow.  He  bowed  civilly  to  the  fair  youth  and  bent  over 
the  girl's  hand. 

"It  is  very  good,"  he  said,  "to  see  you  again  in  the 
world.  We  have  need  of  you,  nous  autres.  Madame 
your  mother  is  well,  I  hope — and  the  bear?"  He  called 
old  Mr.  Stewart  "the  bear"  in  a  sort  of  grave  jest,  and  that 
fierce  octogenarian  rather  liked  it. 

"Oh  yes,"  the  girl  said,  "we're  all  fairly  well.  My 
mother  had  one  of  her  headaches  to-night  and  so  didn't 
come  here,  but  she's  as  well  as  usual,  and  'the  bear' — yes, 
he's  well  enough  physically,  I  should  think,  but  he  has  not 
been  quite  the  same  since — during  the  past  month.  It  has 
told  upon  him,  you  know.  He  grieves  over  it  much  more 
than  he  will  admit." 

"Yes,"  said  Baron  de  Vries,  gravely.     "Yes,  I  know." 


JASON 

He  turned  about  toward  the  fair  young  man,  but  that 
youth  had  drifted  away  and  joined  himself  to  another 
group.  Miss  Benham  looked  after  him  and  gave  a  little 
exclamation  of  relief. 

"That  person  was  rather  terrible,"  she  said.  "I  can't 
think  why  he  is  here.  Marian  so  seldom  has  dull  people." 

"I  believe,"  said  the  Belgian,  "that  he  is  some  con 
nection  of  De  Saulnes'.  That  explains  his  presence."  He 
lowered  his  voice.  "You  have  heard  no — news?  They 
have  found  no  trace  ?" 

"No,"  said  she.  "Nothing.  Nothing  at  all.  I'm  rather 
in  despair.  It's  all  so  hideously  mysterious.  I  am  sure, 
you  know,  that  something  has  happened  to  him.  It's — 
very,  very  hard.  Sometimes  I  think  I  can't  bear  it.  But  I 
go  on.  We  all  go  on." 

Baron  de  Vries  nodded  his  head  strongly. 

"That,  my  dear  child,  is  just  what  you  must  do,"  said  he. 
"You  must  go  on.  That  is  what  needs  the  real  courage, 
and  you  have  courage.  I  am  not  afraid  for  you.  And 
sooner  or  later  you  will  hear  of  him — from  him.  It  is  im 
possible  nowadays  to  disappear  for  very  long.  You  will 
hear  from  him."  He  smiled  at  her,  his  slow,  grave  smile 
that  was  not  of  mirth  but  of  kindness  and  sympathy  and 
cheer. 

"And  if  I  may  say  so,"  he  said,  "you  are  doing  very 
wisely  to  come  out  once  more  among  your  friends.  You 
can  accomplish  no  good  by  brooding  at  home.  It  is  better 
tc  live  one's  normal  life — even  when  it  is  not  easy  to  do  it. 
I  say  so  who  know." 

The  girl  touched  Baron  de  Vries'  arm  for  an  instant 
with  her  hand — a  little  gesture  that  seemed  to  express 
thankfulness  and  trust  and  affection. 

16 


JASON 

"If  all  my  friends  were  like  you!"  she  said  to  him.  And 
after  that  she  drew  a  quick  breath  as  if  to  have  done  with 
these  sad  matters,  and  she  turned  her  eyes  once  more  toward 
the  broad  room  where  the  other  guests  stood  in  little  groups, 
all  talking  at  once,  very  rapidly  and  in  loud  voices. 

"What  extraordinarily  cosmopolitan  affairs  these  dinner 
parties  in  new  Paris  are!"  she  said.  "They're  like  diplo 
matic  parties,  only  we  have  a  better  time  and  the  men  don't 
wear  their  orders.  How  many  nationalities  should  you 
say  there  are  in  this  room  now  ?" 

"Without  stopping  to  consider,"  said  Baron  de  Vries,  "I 
say  ten."  They  counted,  and  out  of  fourteen  people  there 
were  represented  nine  races. 

"I  don't  see  Richard  Hartley,"  Miss  Benham  said.  "I 
had  an  idea  he  was  to  be  here.  Ah!"  she  broke  off,  looking 
toward  the  doorway.  "Here  he  comes  now!"she  said.  "  He's 
rather  late.  Who  is  the  Spanish-looking  man  with  him,  I 
wonder  ?  He's  rather  handsome,  isn't  he  ?" 

Baron  de  Vries  moved  a  little  forward  to  look,  and  ex 
claimed  in  his  turn.  He  said: 

"Ah,  I  did  not  know  he  was  returned  to  Paris.  That  is 
Ste.  Marie."  Miss  Benham's  eyes  followed  the  Spanish- 
looking  young  man  as  he  made  his  way  through  the  joyous 
greetings  of  friends  toward  his  hostess. 

"So  that  is  Ste.  Marie!"  she  said,  still  watching  him. 
"The  famous  Ste.  Marie!"  She  gave  a  little  laugh. 

"Well,  I  don't  wonder  at  the  reputation  he  bears  for — 
gallantry  and  that  sort  of  thing.  He  looks  the  part,  doesn't 
he?" 

"Ye-es,"  admitted  her  friend.  "Yes,  he  is  sufficiently 
beau  gar9on.  But — yes — well,  that  is  not  all,  by  any  means. 
You  must  not  get  the  idea  that  Ste.  Marie  is  nothing  but  a 

17 


JASON 

genial  and  romantic  young  squire-of-dames.  He  is  much 
more  than  that.  He  has  very  fine  qualities.  To  be  sure, 
he  appears  to  possess  no  ambition  in  particular,  but  I 
should  be  glad  if  he  were  my  son.  He  comes  of  a  very  old 
house,  and  there  is  no  blot  upon  the  history  of  that  house — 
nothing  but  faithfulness  and  gallantry  and  honor.  And 
there  is,  I  think,  no  blot  upon  Ste.  Marie  himself.  He  is 
fine  gold." 

The  girl  turned  and  stared  at  Baron  de  Vries  with  some 
astonishment. 

"You  speak  very  strongly,"  said  she.  "I  have  never 
heard  you  speak  so  strongly  of  any  one,  I  think." 

The  Belgian  made  a  little  deprecatory  gesture  with  his 
two  hands,  and  he  laughed. 

"Oh,  well,  I  like  the  boy.  And  I  should  hate  to  have 
you  meet  him  for  the  first  time  under  a  misconception. 
Listen,  my  child!  When  a  young  man  is  loved  equally  by 
both  men  and  women,  by  both  old  and  young,  that  young 
man  is  worthy  of  friendship  and  trust.  Everybody  likes 
Ste.  Marie.  In  a  sense,  that  is  his  misfortune.  The  way 
is  made  too  easy  for  him.  His  friends  stand  so  thick  about 
him  that  they  shut  off  his  view  of  the  heights.  To  waken 
ambition  in  his  soul  he  has  need  of  solitude  or  misfortune 
or  grief.  Or,"  said  the  elderly  Belgian,  laughing  gently— 
"or  perhaps  the  other  thing  might  do  it  best — the  more  ob 
vious  thing  ?" 

The  girl's  raised  eyebrows  questioned  him,  and  when  he 
did  not  answer,  she  said: 

"What  thing,  then  ?" 

"Why,  love,"  said  Baron  de  Vries.  "Love,  to  be  sure. 
Love  is  said  to  work  miracles,  and  I  believe  that  to  be  a 
perfectly  true  saying.  Ah,  he  is  coming  here!" 

18 


JASON 

The  Marquise  de  Saulnes,  who  was  a  very  pretty  little 
Englishwoman  with  a  deceptively  doll-like  look,  approach 
ed,  dragging  Ste.  Marie  in  her  wake.  She  said: 

"My  dearest  dear,  I  give  you  of  my  best.  Thank  me 
and  cherish  him!  I  believe  he  is  to  lead  you  to  the  place 
where  food  is,  isn't  he  ?"  She  beamed  over  her  shoulder 
and  departed,  and  Miss  Benham  found  herself  confronted 
by  the  Spanish-looking  man.  Her  first  thought  was  that  he 
was  not  as  handsome  as  he  had  seemed  at  a  distance,  but 
something  much  better.  For  a  young  man  she  thought  his 
face  was  rather  oddly  weather-beaten,  as  if  he  might  have 
been  very  much  at  sea,  and  it  was  too  dark  to  be  entirely 
pleasing.  But  she  liked  his  eyes,  which  were  not  brown  or 
black,  as  she  had  expected,  but  a  very  unusual  dark  gray — 
a  sort  of  slate  color.  And  she  liked  his  mouth,  too,  while 
disapproving  of  the  fierce  little  upturned  mustache  which 
seemed  to  her  a  bit  operatic.  It  was  her  habit — and  it  is 
not  an  unreliable  habit — to  judge  people  by  their  eyes  and 
mouths.  Ste.  Marie's  mouth  pleased  her  because  the  lips 
were  neither  thin  nor  thick,  they  were  not  drawn  into  an 
unpleasant  line  by  unpleasant  habits,  they  did  not  pout  as 
so  many  Latin  lips  do,  and  they  had  at  one  corner  a 
humorous  expression  which  she  found  curiously  agree 
able. 

"You  are  to  cherish  me,"  Ste.  Marie  said.  "Orders 
from  headquarters.  How  does  one  cherish  people  ?"  The 
corner  of  his  very  expressive  mouth  twitched,  and  he 
grinned  at  her. 

Miss  Benham  did  not  approve  of  young  men  who  began 
an  acquaintance  in  this  very  familiar  manner.  She  thought 
that  there  was  a  certain  preliminary  and  more  formal  stage 
which  ought  to  be  got  through  with  first,  but  Ste.  Marie's 

19 


JASON 

grin  was  irresistible.  In  spite  of  herself,  she  found  that  she 
was  laughing. 

"I  don't  quite  know,"  she  said.  "It  sounds  rather 
appalling,  doesn't  it  ?  Marian  has  such  an  extraordinary 
fashion  of  hurling  people  at  each  other's  heads!  She  takes 
my  breath  away  at  times." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  "perhaps  we  can  settle  upon 
something  when  I've  led  you  to  the  place  where  food  is. 
And,  by-the-way,  what  are  we  waiting  for  ?  Are  we  not  all 
here  ?  There's  an  even  number."  He  broke  off  with  a 
sudden  exclamation  of  pleasure;  and  when  Miss  Benham 
turned  to  look,  she  found  that  Baron  de  Vries,  who  had 
been  talking  to  some  friends,  had  once  more  come  up  to 
where  she  stood. 

She  watched  the  greeting  between  the  two  men,  and  its 
quiet  affection  impressed  her  very  much.  She  knew  Baron 
de  Vries  well,  and  she  knew  that  it  was  not  his  habit  to 
show  or  to  feel  a  strong  liking  for  young  and  idle  men. 
This  young  man  must  be  very  worth  while  to  have  won 
the  regard  of  that  wise  old  Belgian.  Just  then  Hartley, 
who  had  been  barricaded  behind  a  cordon  of  friends,  came 
up  to  her  in  an  abominable  temper  over  his  ill  luck,  and  a 
few  moments  later  the  dinner  procession  was  formed  and 
they  went  in. 

At  table  Miss  Benham  found  herself  between  Ste.  Marie 
and  the  same  strange,  fair  youth  who  had  afflicted  her  in 
the  drawing-room.  She  looked  upon  him  now  with  a  sort 
of  dismayed  terror,  but  it  developed  that  there  was  nothing 
to  fear  from  the  fair  youth.  He  had  no  attention  to  waste 
upon  social  amenities.  He  fell  upon  his  food  with  a  wolfish 
passion  extraordinary  to  see  and  also — alas! — to  hear.  Miss 
Benham  turned  from  him  to  meet  Ste.  Marie's  delighted  eye. 

20 


JASON 

"Tell  him  for  me,"  begged  that  gentleman,  "that  soup 
should  be  seen — not  heard." 

But  Miss  Benham  gave  a  little  shiver  of  disgust.  "I 
shall  tell  him  nothing  whatever,"  she  said.  "He's  quite 
too  dreadful,  really!  People  shouldn't  be  exposed  to  that 
sort  of  thing.  It's  not  only  the  noises.  Plenty  of  very 
charming  and  estimable  Germans,  for  example,  make 
strange  noises  at  table.  But  he  behaves  like  a  famished 
dog  over  a  bone.  I  refuse  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
him.  You  must  make  up  the  loss  to  me,  M.  Ste.  Marie. 
You  must  be  as  amusing  as  two  people."  She  smiled  across 
at  him  in  her  gravely  questioning  fashion.  "I'm  wonder 
ing,"  she  said,  "if  I  dare  ask  you  a  very  personal  ques 
tion.  I  hesitate  because  I  don't  like  people  who  presume 
too  much  upon  a  short  acquaintance — and  our  acquaint 
ance  has  been  very,  very  short,  hasn't  it  ?  even  though  we 
may  have  heard  a  great  deal  about  each  other  beforehand. 
I  wonder — " 

"Oh,  I  should  ask  it  if  I  were  you!"  said  Ste.  Marie, 
at  once.  "I'm  an  extremely  good-natured  person.  And, 
besides,  I  quite  naturally  feel  flattered  at  your  taking  in 
terest  enough  to  ask  anything  about  me." 

"Well,"  said  she,  "it's  this:  Why  does  everybody  call 
you  just  'Ste.  Marie'?  Most  people  are  spoken  of  as 
Monsieur  this  or  that — if  there  isn't  a  more  august  title; 
but  they  all  call  you  Ste.  Marie  without  any  Monsieur.  It 
seems  rather  odd." 

Ste.  Marie  looked  puzzled.  "Why,"  he  said,  "I  don't 
believe  I  know,  just.  I'd  never  thought  of  that.  It's 
quite  true,  of  course.  They  never  do  use  a  Monsieur  or 
anything,  do  they  ?  How  cheeky  of  them!  I  wonder  why 
it  is?  I'll  ask  Hartley." 

21 


JASON 

He  did  ask  Hartley  later  on,  and  Hartley  didn't  know, 
either.  Miss  Benham  asked  some  other  people,  who  were 
vague  about  it,  and  in  the  end  she  became  convinced  that 
it  was  an  odd  and  quite  inexplicable  form  of  something 
like  endearment.  But  nobody  seemed  to  have  formulated 
it  to  himself. 

"The  name  is  really  'De  Ste.  Marie,"'  he  went  on,  "and 
there's  a  title  that  I  don't  use,  and  a  string  of  Christian 
names  that  one  never  employs.  My  people  were  Bearnais, 
and  there's  a  heap  of  ruins  on  top  of  a  hill  in  the  Pyrenees 
where  they  lived.  It  used  to  be  Ste.  Marie  de  Mont-les- 
Roses,  but  afterward,  after  the  Revolution,  they  called  it 
Ste.  Marie  de  Mont  Perdu.  My  great-grandfather  was 
killed  there,  but  some  old  servants  smuggled  his  little  son 
away  and  saved  him." 

He  seemed  to  Miss  Benham  to  say  that  in  exactly  the 
right  manner,  not  in  the  cheap  and  scoffing  fashion  which 
some  young  men  affect  in  speaking  of  ancestral  fortunes 
or  misfortunes,  nor  with  too  much  solemnity.  And  when 
she  allowed  a  little  silence  to  occur  at  the  end,  he  did  not 
go  on  with  his  family  history,  but  turned  at  once  to  another 
subject.  It  pleased  her  curiously. 

The  fair  youth  at  her  other  side  continued  to  crouch 
over  his  food,  making  fierce  and  animal-like  noises.  He 
never  spoke  or  seemed  to  wish  to  be  spoken  to,  and  Miss 
Benham  found  it  easy  to  ignore  him  altogether.  It  oc 
curred  to  her  once  or  twice  that  Ste.  Marie's  other  neigh 
bor  might  desire  an  occasional  word  from  him,  but,  after 
all,  she  said  to  herself  that  was  his  affair  and  beyond  her 
control.  So  these  two  talked  together  through  the  entire  din 
ner  period,  and  the  girl  was  aware  that  she  was  being  much 
more  deeply  affected  by  the  simple,  magnetic  charm  of  a 

22 


JASON 

man  than  ever  before  in  her  life.  It  made  her  a  little  angry, 
because  she  was  unfamiliar  with  this  sort  of  thing  and  dis 
trusted  it.  She  was  rather  a  perfect  type  of  that  phenome 
non  before  which  the  British  and  Continental  world  stands 
in  mingled  delight  and  exasperation — the  American  un 
married  young  woman,  the  creature  of  extraordinary  beauty 
and  still  more  extraordinary  poise,  the  virgin  with  the 
bearing  and  savoir-faire  of  a  woman  of  the  world,  the  fresh- 
cheeked  girl  with  the  calm  mind  of  a  savante  and  the  cool 
judgment,  in  regard  to  men  and  things,  of  an  ambassador. 
The  European  world  says  she  is  cold,  and  that  may  be 
true;  but  it  is  well  enough  known  that  she  can  love  very 
deeply.  It  says  that,  like  most  queens,  and  for  precisely 
the  same  set  of  reasons,  she  later  on  makes  a  bad  mother; 
but  it  is  easy  to  point  to  queens  who  are  the  best  of  mothers. 
In  short,  she  remains  an  enigma,  and,  like  all  other  enigmas, 
forever  fascinating. 

Miss  Benham  reflected  that  she  knew  almost  nothing 
about  Ste.  Marie  save  for  his  reputation  as  a  carpet  knight, 
and  Baron  de  Vries'  good  opinion,  which  could  not  be 
despised.  And  that  made  her  the  more  displeased  when 
she  realized  how  promptly  she  was  surrendering  to  his 
charm.  In  a  moment  of  silence  she  gave  a  sudden  little 
laugh  which  seemed  to  express  a  half -angry  astonish 
ment. 

"What  was  that  for?"  Ste.  Marie  demanded. 

The  girl  looked  at  him  for  an  instant  and  shook  her  head. 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  said  she.  "That's  rude,  isn't  it? 
I'm  sorry.  Perhaps  I  will  tell  you  one  day,  when  we  know 
each  other  better." 

But  inwardly  she  was  saying:  "Why,  I  suppose  this  is 
how  they  all  begin — all  these  regiments  of  women  who  make 
3  23 


JASON 

fools  of  themselves  about  him!  I  suppose  this  is  exactly 
what  he  does  to  them  all!" 

It  made  her  angry,  and  she  tried  quite  unfairly  to  shift 
the  anger,  as  it  were,  to  Ste.  Marie — to  put  him  somehow 
in  the  wrong.  But  she  was  by  nature  very  just,  and  she 
could  not  quite  do  that,  particularly  as  it  was  evident  that 
the  man  was  using  no  cheap  tricks.  He  did  not  try  to  flirt 
with  her,  and  he  did  not  attempt  to  pay  her  veiled  com 
pliments,  though  she  was  often  aware  that  when  her  at 
tention  was  diverted  for  a  few  moments  his  eyes  were  al 
ways  upon  her,  and  that  is  a  compliment  that  few  women 
can  find  it  in  their  hearts  to  resent. 

"You  say,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  "'when  we  know  each  other 
better.'  May  one  twist  that  into  a  permission  to  come  and 
see  you — I  mean,  really  see  you — not  just  leave  a  card  at 
your  door  to-morrow  by  way  of  observing  the  formalities  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Oh  yes,  one  may  twist  it  into  some 
thing  like  that  without  straining  it  unduly,  I  think.  My 
mother  and  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  you..  I'm  sorry  she 
is  not  here  to-night  to  say  it  herself." 

Then  the  hostess  began  to  gather  together  her  flock,  and 
so  the  two  had  no  more  speech.  But  when  the  women  had 
gone  and  the  men  were  left  about  the  dismantled  table, 
Hartley  moved  up  beside  Ste.  Marie  and  shook  a  sad  head 
at  him.  He  said: 

"You're  a  very  lucky  being.  I  was  quietly  hoping,  on 
the  way  here,  that  I  should  be  the  fortunate  man,  but  you 
always  have  all  the  luck.  I  hope  you're  decently  grateful." 

"Mon  vieux,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  "my  feet  are  upon  the 
stars.  No!"  He  shook  his  head  as  if  the  figure  displeased 
him.  "No,  my  feet  are  upon  the  ladder  to  the  stars.  Grate 
ful  ?  What  does  a  foolish  word  like  grateful  mean  ?  Don't 

24 


JASON 

talk  to  me.  You  are  not  worthy  to  trample  among  my 
magnificent  thoughts.  I  am  a  god  upon  Olympus." 

"You  said  just  now,"  objected  the  other  man,  practically, 
"that  your  feet  were  on  a  ladder.  There  are  no  ladders 
from  Olympus  to  the  stars." 

"Ho!"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "Ho!  Aren't  there,  though? 
There  shall  be  ladders  all  over  Olympus,  if  I  like.  What  do 
you  know  about  gods  and  stars  ?  I  shall  be  a  god  climbing 
to  the  heavens,  and  I  shall  be  an  angel  of  light,  and  I  shall 
be  a  miserable  worm  grovelling  in  the  night  here  below, 
and  I  shall  be  a  poet,  and  I  shall  be  anything  else  I  happen 
to  think  of — all  of  them  at  once,  if  I  choose.  And  you  shall 
be  the  tongue-tied  son  of  perfidious  Albion  that  you  are, 
gaping  at  my  splendors  from  a  fog-bank — a  November  fog- 
bank  in  May.  Who  is  the  desiccated  gentleman  bearing 
down  upon  us  ?" 


Ill 

STE.   MARIE    MAKES    A    VOW,   BUT   A    PAIR    OF    EYES 
HAUNT    HIM 

HARTLEY  looked  over  his  shoulder  and  gave  a  little 
exclamation  of  distaste. 

"It's  Captain  Stewart,  Miss  Benham's  uncle,"  he  said, 
lowering  his  voice.  "I'm  off.  I  shall  abandon  you  to  him. 
He's  a  good  old  soul,  but  he  bores  me."  Hartley  nodded 
to  the  man  who  was  approaching,  and  then  made  his  way 
to  the  end  of  the  table,  where  their  host  sat  discussing  aero- 
club  matters  with  a  group  of  the  other  men. 

Captain  Stewart  dropped  into  the  vacant  chair,  saying: 
"May  I  recall  myself  to  you,  M.  Ste.  Marie?  We  met,  I 
believe,  once  or  twice,  a  couple  of  years  ago.  My  name's 
Stewart." 

Captain  Stewart — the  title  was  vaguely  believed  to  have 
been  borne  some  years  before  in  the  American  service,  but 
no  one  appeared  to  know  much  about  it — was  not  an  old 
man.  He  could  not  have  been,  at  this  time,  much  more 
than  fifty,  but  English-speaking  acquaintances  often  called 
him  "old  Stewart,"  and  others  "ce  vieux  Stewart."  In 
deed,  at  a  first  glance  he  might  have  passed  for  anything  up 
to  sixty,  for  his  face  was  a  good  deal  more  lined  and  wrinkled 
than  it  should  have  been  at  his  age.  Ste.  Marie's  adjective 
had  been  rather  apt.  The  man  had  a  desiccated  ap- 

26 


JASON 

pearance.  Upon  examination,  however,  one  saw  that  the 
blood  was  still  red  in  his  cheeks  and  lips,  and,  although  his 
neck  was  thin  and  withered  like  an  old  man's,  his  brown 
eyes  still  held  their  fire.  The  hair  was  almost  gone  from 
the  top  of  his  large,  round  head,  but  it  remained  at  the  sides 
— stiff,  colorless  hair,  with  a  hint  of  red  in  it.  And  there  were 
red  streaks  in  his  gray  mustache,  which  was  trained  out 
ward  in  two  loose  tufts,  like  shaving-brushes.  The  mus 
tache  and  the  shallow  chin  under  it  gave  him  an  odd,  cat 
like  appearance.  Hartley,  who  rather  disliked  the  man, 
used  to  insist  that  he  had  heard  him  mew. 

Ste.  Marie  said  something  politely  non-committal,  though 
he  did  not  at  all  remember  the  alleged  meeting  two  years 
before,  and  he  looked  at  Captain  Stewart  with  a  real  curios 
ity  and  interest  in  his  character  as  Miss  Benham's  uncle. 
He  thought  it  very  civil  of  the  elder  man  to  make  these 
friendly  advances  when  it  was  in  no  way  incumbent  upon 
him  to  do  so. 

"I  noticed,"  said  Captain  Stewart,  "that  you  were 
placed  next  my  niece,  Helen  Benham,  at  dinner.  This  must 
be  the  first  time  you  two  have  met,  is  it  not  ?  I  remember 
speaking  of  you  to  her  some  months  ago,  and  I  am  quite 
sure  she  said  that  she  had  not  met  you.  Ah,  yes,  of  course, 
you  have  been  away  from  Paris  a  great  deal  since  she  and 
her  mother — her  mother  is  my  sister:  that  is  to  say,  my 
half-sister — have  come  here  to  live  with  my  father."  He 
gave  a  little  gentle  laugh.  "I  take  an  elderly  uncle's 
privilege,"  he  said,  "of  being  rather  proud  of  Helen.  She 
is  called  very  pretty,  and  she  certainly  has  great  poise." 

Ste.  Marie  drew  a  quick  breath,  and  his  eyes  began  to 
flash  as  they  had  done  a  few  moments  before  when  he 
told  Hartley  that  his  feet  were  upon  the  ladder  to  the  stars. 

27 


JASON 

"Miss  Benham!"  he  cried.  "Miss  Benham  is—"  He 
hung  poised  so  for  a  moment,  searching,  as  it  were,  for 
words  of  sufficient  splendor,  but  in  the  end  he  shook  his 
head  and  the  gleam  faded  from  his  eyes.  He  sank  back 
in  his  chair,  sighing.  "Miss  Benham,"  said  he,  "is  ex 
tremely  beautiful." 

And  again  her  uncle  emitted  his  little  gentle  laugh,  which 
may  have  deceived  Hartley  into  believing  that  he  had  heard 
the  man  mew.  The  sound  was  as  much  like  mewing  as  it 
was  like  anything  else. 

"I  am  very  glad,"  Captain  Stewart  said,  "to  see  her 
come  out  once  more  into  the  world.  She  needs  distrac 
tion.  We —  You  may  possibly  have  heard  that  the  family 
is  in  great  distress  of  mind  over  the  disappearance  of  my 
young  nephew.  Helen  has  suffered  particularly,  because 
she  is  convinced  that  the  boy  has  met  with  foul  play.  I 
myself  think  it  very  unlikely — very  unlikely  indeed.  The 
lack  of  motive,  for  one  thing,  and  for  another —  Ah,  well, 
a  score  of  reasons!  But  Helen  refuses  to  be  comforted.  It 
seems  to  me  much  more  like  a  boy's  prank — his  idea  of 
revenge  for  what  he  considered  unjust  treatment  at  his 
grandfather's  hands.  He  was  always  a  headstrong  young 
ster,  and  he  has  been  a  bit  spoiled.  Still,  of  course,  the 
uncertainty  is  very  trying  for  us  all — very  wearing." 

"Of  course,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  gravely.  "It  is  most  un 
fortunate.  Ah,  by-the-way!"  He  looked  up  with  a  sud 
den  interest.  "A  rather  odd  thing  happened,"  he  said, 
"as  Hartley  and  I  were  coming  here  this  evening.  We 
walked  up  the  Champs-Elysees  from  the  Concorde,  and 
on  the  way  Hartley  had  been  telling  me  of  your  nephew's 
disappearance.  Near  the  Rond  Point  we  came  upon  a 
motor-car  which  was  drawn  up  at  the  side  of  the  street — 

28 


THE    FAMILY    IS    IN    GREAT    DISTRESS    OF    MIND    OVER    THE 
DISAPPEARANCE    OF    MY   YOUNG    NEPHEW " 


JASON 

there  had  been  an  accident  of  no  consequence,  a  boy  tum 
bled  over  but  not  hurt.  Well,  one  of  the  two  occupants 
of  the  motor-car  was  a  man  whom  I  used  to  see  about 
Maxim's  and  the  Cafe  de  Paris  and  the  Montmartre  places, 
too,  some  time  ago — a  rather  shady  character  whose  name 
I've  forgotten.  The  odd  part  of  it  all  was  that  on  the  last 
occasion  or  two  on  which  I  saw  your  nephew  he  was  with 
this  man.  I  think  it  was  in  Henry's  Bar.  Of  course,  it 
means  nothing  at  all.  Your  nephew  doubtless  knew  scores 
of  people,  and  this  man  is  no  more  likely  to  have  informa 
tion  about  his  present  whereabouts  than  any  of  the  others. 
Still,  I  should  have  liked  to  ask  him.  I  didn't  remember 
who  he  was  till  he  had  gone." 

Captain  Stewart  shook  his  head  sadly,  frowning  down 
upon  the  cigarette  from  which  he  had  knocked  the  ash. 

"I  am  afraid  poor  Arthur  did  not  always  choose  his 
friends  with  the  best  of  judgment,"  said  he.  "I  am  not 
squeamish,  and  I  would  not  have  boys  kept  in  a  glass 
case,  but — yes,  I'm  afraid  Arthur  was  not  always  too  care 
ful."  He  replaced  the  cigarette  neatly  between  his  lips. 
"This  man,  now — this  man  whom  you  saw  to-night — what 
sort  of  looking  man  will  he  have  been  ?" 

"Oh,  a  tall,  lean  man,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "A  tall  man 
with  blue  eyes  and  a  heavy,  old-fashioned  mustache.  I 
just  can't  remember  the  name." 

The  smoke  stood  still  for  an  instant  over  Captain  Stewart's 
cigarette,  and  it  seemed  to  Ste.  Marie  that  a  little  contor 
tion  of  anger  fled  across  the  man's  face  and  was  gone  again. 
He  stirred  slightly  in  his  chair.  After  a  moment  he  said: 

"I  fancy,  from  your  description — I  fancy  I  know  who 
the  man  was.  If  it  is  the  man  I  am  thinking  of,  the  name 
is — Powers.  He  is,  as  you  have  said,  a  rather  shady  char- 

29 


JASON 

acter,  and  I  more  than  once  warned  my  nephew  against 
him.  Such  people  are  not  good  companions  for  a  boy. 
Yes,  I  warned  him." 

"Powers,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  "doesn't  sound  right  to  me, 
you  know.  I  can't  say  the  fellow's  name  myself,  but  I'm 
sure— that  is,  I  think— it's  not  Powers." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Captain  Stewart,  with  an  elderly  man's 
half-querulous  certainty.  "Yes,  the  name  is  Powers.  I 
remember  it  well.  And  I  remember —  Yes,  it  was  odd, 
was  it  not,  your  meeting  him  like  that,  just  as  you  were 
talking  of  Arthur?  You — oh,  you  didn't  speak  to  him, 
you  say?  No,  no,  to  be  sure!  You  didn't  recognize  him 
at  once.  Yes,  it  was  odd.  Of  course,  the  man  could  have 
had  nothing  to  do  with  poor  Arthur's  disappearance.  His 
only  interest  in  the  boy  at  any  time  would  have  been  for 
what  money  Arthur  might  have,  and  he  carried  none,  or 
almost  none,  away  with  him  when  he  vanished.  Eh,  poor 
lad!  Where  can  he  be  to-night,  I  wonder?  It's  a  sad 
business,  M.  Ste.  Marie — a  sad  business." 

Captain  Stewart  fell  into  a  sort  of  brooding  silence, 
frowning  down  at  the  table  before  him,  and  twisting  with 
his  thin  fingers  the  little  liqueur  glass  and  the  coffee-cup 
which  were  there.  Once  or  twice,  Ste.  Marie  thought,  the 
frown  deepened  and  twisted  into  a  sort  of  scowl,  and  the 
man's  fingers  twitched  on  the  cloth  of  the  table;  but  when 
at  last  the  group  at  the  other  end  of  the  board  rose 
and  began  to  move  towards  the  door,  Captain  Stewart 
rose  also  and  followed  them.  At  the  door  he  seemed  to 
think  of  something,  and  touched  Ste.  Marie  upon  the 
arm. 

"This — ah,  Powers,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone — "this  man 
whom  you  saw  to-night!  You  said  he  was  one  of  two 

30 


JASON 

occupants  of  a  motor-car.  Yes  ?  Did  you  by  any  chance 
recognize  the  other  ?" 

"Oh,  the  other  was  a  young  woman,"  said  Ste.  Marie. 
"No,  I  never  saw  her  before.  She  was  very  handsome." 

Captain  Stewart  said  something  under  his  breath  and 
turned  abruptly  away.  But  an  instant  later  he  faced  about 
once  more,  smiling.  He  said,  in  a  man-of-the-world  manner, 
which  sat  rather  oddly  upon  him: 

"Ah,  well,  we  all  have  our  little  love-affairs.  I  dare  say 
this  shady  fellow  has  his."  And  for  some  obscure  reason 
Ste.  Marie  found  the  speech  peculiarly  offensive. 

In  the  drawing-room  he  had  opportunity  for  no  more 
than  a  word  with  Miss  Benham,  for  Hartley,  enraged  over 
his  previous  ill  success,  cut  in  ahead  of  him  and  manoeuvred 
that  young  lady  into  a  corner,  where  he  sat  before  her, 
turning  a  square  and  determined  back  to  the  world.  Ste. 
Marie  listlessly  played  bridge  for  a  time,  but  his  attention 
was  not  upon  it,  and  he  was  glad  when  the  others  at  the 
table  settled  their  accounts  and  departed  to  look  in  at  a 
dance  somewhere.  After  that  he  talked  for  a  little  with 
Marian  de  Saulnes,  whom  he  liked  and  who  made  no  secret 
of  adoring  him.  She  complained  loudly  that  he  was  in  a 
vile  temper,  which  was  not  true;  he  was  only  restless  and 
distrait  and  wanted  to  be  alone;  and  so,  at  last,  he  took  his 
leave  without  waiting  for  Hartley. 

Outside,  in  the  street,  he  stood  for  a  moment,  hesitating, 
and  an  expectant  fiacre  drew  up  before  the  house,  the  cocher 
raising  an  interrogative  whip.  In  the  end  Ste.  Marie  shook 
his  head  and  turned  away  on  foot.  It  was  a  still,  sweet 
night  of  soft  airs,  and  a  moonless,  starlit  sky,  and  the  man 
was  very  fond  of  walking  in  the  dark.  From  the  Etoile  he 
walked  down  the  Champs-Elysees,  but  presently  turned 

31 


JASON 

toward  the  river.  His  eyes  were  upon  the  mellow  stars, 
his  feet  upon  the  ladder  thereunto.  He  found  himself 
crossing  the  Pont  des  Invalides,  and  halted  midway  to  rest 
and  look.  He  laid  his  arms  upon  the  bridge's  parapet  and 
turned  his  face  outward.  Against  it  bore  a  little  gentle 
breeze  that  smelled  of  the  purifying  water  below  and  of 
the  night  and  of  green  things  growing.  Beneath  him  the 
river  ran  black  as  flowing  ink,  and  across  its  troubled  sur 
face  the  many-colored  lights  of  the  many  bridges  glittered 
very  beautifully,  swirling  arabesques  of  gold  and  crimson. 
The  noises  of  the  city — beat  of  hoofs  upon  wooden  pave 
ments,  horn  of  train  or  motor-car,  jingle  of  bell  upon  cab- 
horse — came  here  faintly  and  as  if  from  a  great  distance. 
Above  the  dark  trees  of  the  Cours  la  Reine  the  sky  glowed, 
softly  golden,  reflecting  the  million  lights  of  Paris. 

Ste.  Marie  closed  his  eyes,  and  against  darkness  he  saw 
the  beautiful  head  of  Helen  Benham,  the  clear-cut,  exquisite 
modelling  of  feature  and  contour,  the  perfection  of  form  and 
color.  Her  eyes  met  his  eyes,  and  they  were  very  serene  and 
calm  and  confident.  She  smiled  at  him,  and  the  new  con 
tours  into  which  her  face  fell  with  the  smile  were  more  per 
fect  than  before.  He  watched  the  turn  of  her  head,  and  the 
grace  of  the  movement  was  the  uttermost  effortless  grace 
one  dreams  that  a  queen  should  have.  The  heart  of  Ste. 
Marie  quickened  in  him,  and  he  would  have  gone  down 
upon  his  knees. 

He  was  well  aware  that  with  the  coming  of  this  girl  some 
thing  unprecedented,  wholly  new  to  his  experience,  had 
befallen  him — an  awakening  to  a  new  life.  He  had  been 
in  love  a  very  great  many  times.  He  was  usually  in  love. 
And  each  time  his  heart  had  gone  through  the  same  sweet 
and  bitter  anguish,  the  same  sleepless  nights  had  come  and 

32 


JASON 

gone  upon  him,  the  eternal  and  ever  new  miracle  had  waken 
ed  spring  in  his  soul,  had  passed  its  summer  solstice,  had 
faded  through  autumnal  regrets  to  winter's  death;  but 
through  it  all  something  within  him  had  waited  asleep. 

He  found  himself  wondering  dully  what  it  was — wherein 
lay  the  great  difference  ? — and  he  could  not  answer  the  ques 
tion  he  asked.  He  knew  only  that  whereas  before  he  had 
loved,  he  now  went  down  upon  prayerful  knees  to  worship. 
In  a  sudden  poignant  thrill  the  knightly  fervor  of  his  fore 
fathers  came  upon  him,  and  he  saw  a  sweet  and  golden  lady 
set  far  above  him  upon  a  throne.  Her  clear  eyes  gazed  afar, 
serene  and  untroubled.  She  sat  wrapped  in  a  sort  of  vir 
ginal  austerity,  unaware  of  the  base  passions  of  men.  The 
other  women  whom  Ste.  Marie  had — as  he  was  pleased  to 
term  it — loved  had  certainly  come  at  least  half-way  to  meet 
him,  and  some  of  them  had  come  a  good  deal  farther  than 
that.  He  could  not,  by  the  wildest  flight  of  imagination, 
conceive  this  girl  doing  anything  of  that  sort.  She  was  to 
be  won  by  trial  and  high  endeavor,  by  prayer  and  self-pu 
rification — not  captured  by  a  warm  eye-glance,  a  whispered 
word,  a  laughing  kiss.  In  fancy  he  looked  from  the  crowd 
ing  cohorts  of  these  others  to  that  still,  sweet  figure  set  on 
high,  wrapped  in  virginal  austerity,  calm  in  her  serene  per 
fection,  and  his  soul  abased  itself  before  her.  He  knelt  in 
an  awed  and  worshipful  adoration. 

So  before  quest  or  tournament  or  battle  must  those  elder 
Ste.  Maries — Ste.  Maries  de  Mont-les-Roses — have  knelt, 
each  knight  at  the  feet  of  his  lady,  each  knightly  soul  aglow 
with  the  chaste  ardor  of  chivalry. 

The  man's  hands  tightened  upon  the  parapet  of  the 
bridge,  he  lifted  his  face  again  to  the  shining  stars  where- 
among,  as  his  fancy  had  it,  she  sat  enthroned.  Exultingly 

33 


JASON 

he  felt  under  his  feet  the  rungs  of  the  ladder,  and  in  the 
darkness  he  swore  a  great  oath  to  have  done  forever  with 
blindness  and  grovelling,  to  climb  and  climb,  forever  to 
climb,  until  at  last  he  should  stand  where  she  was — cleansed 
and  made  worthy  by  long  endeavor — at  last  meet  her  eyes 
and  touch  her  hand. 

It  was  a  fine  and  chivalric  frenzy,  and  Ste.  Marie  was 
passionately  in  earnest  about  it,  but  his  guardian  angel — 
indeed,  Fate  herself — must  have  laughed  a  little  in  the  dark, 
knowing  what  manner  of  man  he  was  in  less  exalted  hours. 

It  was  an  odd  freak  of  memory  that  at  last  recalled  him 
to  earth.  Every  man  knows  that  when  a  strong  and,  for 
the  moment,  unavailing  effort  has  been  made  to  recall 
something  lost  to  mind,  the  memory,  in  some  mysterious 
fashion,  goes  on  working  long  after  the  attention  has  been 
elsewhere  diverted,  and  sometimes  hours  afterward,  or  even 
days,  produces  quite  suddenly  and  inappropriately  the  lost 
article.  Ste.  Marie  had  turned,  with  a  little  sigh,  to  take 
up,  once  more,  his  walk  across  the  Pont  des  Invalides, 
when  seemingly  from  nowhere,  and  certainly  by  no  con 
scious  effort,  a  name  flashed  into  his  mind.  He  said  it 
aloud: 

"O'Hara!  O'Hara!  That  tall,  thin  chap's  name  was 
O'Hara,  by  Jove!  It  wasn't  Powers  at  all!"  He  laughed 
a  little  as  he  remembered  how  very  positive  Captain  Stew 
art  had  been.  And  then  he  frowned,  thinking  that  the 
mistake  was  an  odd  one,  since  Stewart  had  evidently  known 
a  good  deal  about  this  adventurer.  Captain  Stewart, 
though,  Ste.  Marie  reflected,  was  exactly  the  sort  to  be  very 
sure  he  was  right  about  things.  He  had  just  the  neat  and 
precise  and  semi-scholarly  personality  of  the  man  who 
always  knows.  So  Ste.  Marie  dismissed  the  matter  With 

34       ' 


JASON 

another  brief  laugh,  but  a  cognate  matter  was  less  easy  to 
dismiss.  The  name  brought  with  it  a  face — a  dark  and 
splendid  face  with  tragic  eyes  that  called.  He  walked  a 
long  way  thinking  about  them  and  wondering.  The  eyes 
haunted  him.  It  will  have  been  reasonably  evident  that 
Ste.  Marie  was  a  fanciful  and  imaginative  soul.  He  needed 
but  a  chance  word,  the  sight  of  a  face  in  a  crowd,  the  glance 
of  an  eye,  to  begin  story-building,  and  he  would  go  on  for 
hours  about  it  and  work  himself  up  to  quite  a  passion  with 
his  imaginings.  He  should  have  been  a  writer  of  fiction. 

He  began  forthwith  to  construct  romances  about  this 
lady  of  the  motor-car.  He  wondered  why  she  should  have 
been  with  the  shady  Irishman — if  Irishman  he  was — 
O'Hara,  and  with  some  anxiety  he  wondered  what  the 
two  were  to  each  other.  Captain  Stewart's  little  cynical 
jest  came  to  his  mind,  and  he  was  conscious  of  a  sudden 
desire  to  kick  Miss  Benham's  middle-aged  uncle. 

The  eyes  haunted  him.  What  was  it  they  suffered  ? 
Out  of  what  misery  did  they  call — and  for  what  ?  He 
walked  all  the  long  way  home  to  his  little  flat  overlooking 
the  Luxembourg  Gardens,  haunted  by  those  eyes.  As  he 
climbed  his  stair  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  they  had 
quite  driven  out  of  his  mind  the  image  of  his  beautiful 
lady  who  sat  among  the  stars,  and  the  realization  came  to 
him  with  a  shock. 


IV 

OLD   DAVID    STEWART 

IT  was  Miss  Benham's  custom,  upon  returning  home  at 
night  from  dinner-parties  or  other  entertainments,  to 
look  in  for  a  few  minutes  on  her  grandfather  before  going 
to  bed.  The  old  gentleman,  like  most  elderly  people,  slept 
lightly,  and  often  sat  up  in  bed  very  late  into  the  night, 
reading  or  playing  piquet  with  his  valet.  He  suffered 
hideously  at  times  from  the  malady  which  was  killing  him 
by  degrees,  but  when  he  was  free  from  pain  the  enormous 
recuperative  power,  which  he  had  preserved  to  his  eighty- 
sixth  year,  left  him  almost  as  vigorous  and  clear-minded  as 
if  he  had  never  been  ill  at  all.  Hartley's  description  of  him 
had  not  been  altogether  a  bad  one:  "a  quaint  old  beggar 
...  a  great  quantity  of  white  hair  and  an  enormous  square 
white  beard  and  the  fiercest  eyes  I  ever  saw  .  .  ."  He  was  a 
rather  "quaint  old  beggar,"  indeed!  He  had  let  his  thick, 
white  hair  grow  long,  and  it  hung  down  over  his  brows  in 
unparted  locks  as  the  ancient  Greeks  wore  their  hair.  He 
had  very  shaggy  eyebrows,  and  the  deep-set  eyes  under 
them  gleamed  from  the  shadow  with  a  fierceness  which  was 
rather  deceptive  but  none  the  less  intimidating.  He  had 
a  great  beak  of  a  nose,  but  the  mouth  below  could  not  be 
seen.  It  was  hidden  by  the  mustache  and  the  enormous 
square  beard.  His  face  was  colorless,  almost  as  white  as 

36 


JASON 

hair  and  beard;  there  seemed  to  be  no  shadow  or  tint  any 
where  except  the  cavernous  recesses  from  which  the  man's 
eyes  gleamed  and  sparkled.  Altogether  he  was  certainly 
"a  quaint  old  beggar." 

He  had,  during  the  day  and  evening,  a  good  many  visitors, 
for  the  old  gentleman's  mind  was  as  alert  as  it  ever  had 
been,  and  important  men  thought  him  worth  consulting. 
The  names  which  the  admirable  valet  Peters  announced 
from  time  to  time  were  names  which  meant  a  great  deal  in 
the  official  and  diplomatic  world  of  the  day.  But  if  old 
David  felt  flattered  over  the  unusual  fashion  in  which  the 
great  of  the  earth  continued  to  come  to  him,  he  never  be 
trayed  it.  Indeed,  it  is  quite  probable  that  this  view  of 
the  situation  never  once  occurred  to  him.  He  had  been 
thrown  with  the  great  of  the  earth  for  more  than  half  a 
century,  and  he  had  learned  to  take  it  as  a  matter  of  course. 

On  her  return  from  the  Marquise  de  Saulnes'  dinner 
party,  Miss  Benham  went  at  once  to  her  grandfather's 
wing  of  the  house,  which  had  its  own  street  entrance,  and 
knocked  lightly  at  his  door.  She  asked  the  admirable 
Peters,  who  opened  to  her,  "Is  he  awake?"  and  being  as 
sured  that  he  was,  went  into  the  vast  chamber,  dropping 
her  cloak  on  a  chair  as  she  entered. 

David  Stewart  was  sitting  up  in  his  monumental  bed  be 
hind  a  sort  of  invalid's  table  which  stretched  across  his 
knees  without  touching  them.  He  wore  over  his  night- 
clothes  a  Chinese  mandarin's  jacket  of  old  red  satin,  wadded 
with  down,  and  very  gorgeously  embroidered  with  the  cloud 
and  bat  designs,  and  with  large  round  panels  of  the  imperial 
five-clawed  dragon  in  gold.  He  had  a  number  of  these  jack 
ets — they  seemed  to  be  his  one  vanity  in  things  external — 
and  they  were  so  made  that  they  could  be  slipped  about  him 

37 


JASON 

without  disturbing  him  in  his  bed,  since  they  hung  down 
only  to  the  waist  or  thereabouts.  They  kept  the  upper 
part  of  his  body,  which  was  not  covered  by  the  bedclothes, 
warm,  and  they  certainly  made  him  a  very  impressive 
figure. 

He  said:  "Ah,  Helen!  Come  in!  Come  in!  Sit  down 
on  the  bed  there  and  tell  me  what  you  have  been  doing!" 
He  pushed  aside  the  pack  of  cards  which  was  spread  out 
on  the  invalid's  table  before  him,  and  with  great  care 
counted  a  sum  of  money  in  francs  and  half-francs  and 
nickel  twenty-five  centime  pieces.  "I've  won  seven  francs 
fifty  from  Peters  to-night,"  he  said,  chuckling  gently. 
"That  is  a  very  good  evening,  indeed.  Very  good!  Where 
have  you  been,  and  who  were  there  ?" 

"A  dinner-party  at  the  De  Saulnes',"  said  Miss  Benham, 
making  herself  comfortable  on  the  side  of  the  great  bed. 
"It's  a  very  pleasant  place.  Marian  is,  of  course,  a  dear, 
and  they're  quite  English  and  unceremonious.  You  can 
talk  to  your  neighbor  at  dinner  instead  of  addressing  the 
house  from  a  platform,  as  it  were.  French  dinner-parties 
make  me  nervous." 

Old  David  gave  a  little  growling  laugh. 

"French  dinner-parties  at  least  keep  people  up  to  the 
mark  in  the  art  of  conversation,"  said  he.  "  But  that  is  a 
lost  art,  anyhow,  nowadays,  so  I  suppose  one  might  as  well 
be  quite  informal  and  have  done  with  it.  Who  were  there  ?" 

"Oh,  well" — she  considered,  "no  one,  I  should  think, 
who  would  interest  you.  Rather  an  indifferent  set.  Pleas 
ant  people,  but  not  inspiring.  The  Marquis  had  some  young 
relative  or  connection  who  was  quite  odious  and  made  the 
most  surprising  noises  over  his  food.  I  met  a  new  man 
whom  I  think  I  am  going  to  like  very  much,  indeed.  He 

38 


JASON 

wouldn't  interest  you,  because  he  doesn't  mean  anything  in 
particular,  and  of  course  he  oughtn't  to  interest  me  for  the 
same  reason.  He's  just  an  idle,  pleasant  young  man,  but — 
he  has  great  charm — very  great  charm.  His  name  is  Ste. 
Marie.  Baron  de  Vries  seems  very  fond  of  him,  which 
surprised  me,  rather." 

"Ste.  Marie!"  exclaimed  the  old  gentleman,  in  obvious 
astonishment.  "Ste.  Marie  de  Mont  Perdu?" 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Yes,  that  is  the  name,  I  believe. 
You  know  him,  then  ?  I  wonder  he  didn't  mention  it." 

"I  knew  his  father,"  said  old  David.  "And  his  grand 
father,  for  that  matter.  They're  Gascon,  I  think,  or 
Bearnais;  but  this  boy's  mother  will  have  been  Irish,  unless 
his  father  married  again. 

"  So  you've  been  meeting  a  Ste.  Marie,  have  you  ? — and 
finding  that  he  has  great  charm  ?"  The  old  gentleman 
broke  into  one  of  his  growling  laughs,  and  reached  for  a 
long  black  cigar,  which  he  lighted,  eying  his  granddaughter 
the  while  over  the  flaring  match.  "Well,"  he  said,  when 
the  cigar  was  drawing,  "they  all  have  had  charm.  I  should 
think  there  has  never  been  a  Ste.  Marie  without  it.  They're 
a  sort  of  embodiment  of  romance,  that  family.  This  boy's 
great-grandfather  lost  his  life  defending  a  castle  against  a 
horde  of  peasants  in  1799;  his  grandfather  was  killed  in 
the  French  campaign  in  Mexico  in  '39 — at  Vera  Cruz  it  was, 
I  think;  and  his  father  died  in  a  filibustering  expedition  ten 
years  ago.  I  wonder  what  will  become  of  the  last  Ste. 
Marie?"  Old  David's  eyes  suddenly  sharpened.  "You're 
not  going  to  fall  in  love  with  Ste.  Marie  and  marry  him, 
are  you  ?"  he  demanded. 

Miss  Benham  gave  a  little  angry  laugh,  but  her  grand 
father  saw  the  color  rise  in  her  cheeks  for  all  that. 
4  39 


JASON 

"Certainly  not,"  she  said,  with  great  decision.  "What 
an  absurd  idea!  Because  I  meet  a  man  at  a  dinner-party 
and  say  I  like  him,  must  I  marry  him  to-morrow  ?  I  meet 
a  great  many  men  at  dinners  and  things,  and  a  few  of  them 
I  like.  Heavens!" 

"'Methinks  the  lady  doth  protest  too  much,'"  muttered 
old  David  into  his  huge  beard. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  ?"  asked  Miss  Benham,  politely. 

But  he  shook  his  head,  still  growling  inarticulately,  and 
began  to  draw  enormous  clouds  of  smoke  from  the  long 
black  cigar.  After  a  time  he  took  the  cigar  once  more  from 
his  lips  and  looked  thoughtfully  at  his  granddaughter,  where 
she  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  vast  bed,  upright  and  beautiful, 
perfect  in  the  most  meticulous  detail.  Most  women  when 
they  return  from  a  long  evening  out  look  more  or  less  the 
worse  for  it — deadened  eyes,  pale  cheeks,  loosened  coiffure 
tell  their  inevitable  tale.  Miss  Benham  looked  as  if  she  had 
just  come  from  the  hands  of  a  very  excellent  maid.  She 
looked  as  freshly  soignee  as  she  might  have  looked  at  eight 
that  evening  instead  of  at  one.  Not  a  wave  of  her  per 
fectly  undulated  hair  was  loosened  or  displaced,  not  a  fold 
of  the  lace  at  her  breast  had  departed  from  its  perfect  ar 
rangement. 

"It  is  odd,"  said  old  David  Stewart,  "your  taking  a  fancy 
to  young  Ste.  Marie.  Of  course,  it's  natural,  too,  in  a  way, 
because  you  are  complete  opposites,  I  should  think — that 
is,  if  this  lad  is  like  the  rest  of  his  race.  What  I  mean  is 
that  merely  attractive  young  men  don't,  as  a  rule,  attract 
you." 

"Well,  no,"  she  admitted,  "they  don't  usually.  Men 
with  brains  attract  me  most,  I  think — men  who  are  making 
civilization,  men  who  are  ruling  the  world,  or  at  least  doing 

40 


JASON    . 

important  things  for  it.  That's  your  fault,  you  know.  You 
taught  me  that." 

The  old  gentleman  laughed. 

"Possibly,"  said  he.  "Possibly.  Anyhow,  that  is  the 
sort  of  men  you  like,  and  they  like  you.  You're  by  no 
means  a  fool,  Helen;  in  fact,  you're  a  woman  with  brains. 
You  could  wield  great  influence  married  to  the  proper  sort 
of  man." 

"  But  not  to  M.  Ste.  Marie,"  she  suggested,  smiling  across 
at  him. 

"Well,  no,"  he  said.  "No,  not  to  Ste.  Marie.  It  would 
be  a  mistake  to  marry  Ste.  Marie — if  he  is  what  the  rest 
of  his  house  have  been.  The  Ste.  Maries  live  a  life  com 
pounded  of  romance  and  imagination  and  emotion.  You're 
not  emotional." 

"No,"  said  Miss  Benham,  slowly  and  thoughtfully.  It 
was  as  if  the  idea  were  new  to  her.  "No,  I'm  not,  I  sup 
pose.  No.  Certainly  not." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  old  David,  "you're  by  nature 
rather  cold.  I'm  not  sure  it  isn't  a  good  thing.  Emotional 
people,  I  observe,  are  usually  in  hot  water  of  some  sort. 
When  you  marry  you're  very  likely  to  choose  with  a  great 
deal  of  care  and  some  wisdom.  And  you're  also  likely  to 
have  what  is  called  a  career.  I  repeat  that  you  could  wield 
great  influence  in  the  proper  environment." 

The  girl  frowned  across  at  her  grandfather  reflectively. 

"Do  you  mean  by  that,"  she  asked,  after  a  little  silence — 
"do  you  mean  that  you  think  I  am  likely  to  be  moved  by 
sheer  ambition  and  nothing  else  in  arranging  my  life  ? 
I've  never  thought  of  myself  as  a  very  ambitious  person." 

"Let  us  substitute  for  ambition  common-sense,"  said  old 
David.  "I  think  you  have  a  great  deal  of  common-sense 

41 


JASON 

for  a  woman — and  so  young  a  woman.  How  old  are  you,, 
by-the-way  ?  Twenty-two  ?  Yes,  to  be  sure.  I  think  you 
have  great  common-sense  and  appreciation  of  values.  And 
I  think  you're  singularly  free  of  the  emotionalism  that  so 
often  plays  hob  with  them  all.  People  with  common-sense 
fall  in  love  in  the  right  places." 

"I  don't  quite  like  the  sound  of  it,"  said  Miss  Benham. 
"Perhaps  I  am  rather  ambitious — I  don't  know.  Yes,  per 
haps.  I  should  like  to  play  some  part  in  the  world,  I  don't 
deny  that.  But — am  I  as  cold  as  you  say  ?  I  doubt  it 
very  much.  I  doubt  that." 

"You're  twenty-two,"  said  her  grandfather,  "and  you 
have  seen  a  good  deal  of  society  in  several  capitals.  Have 
you  ever  fallen  in  love  ?" 

Oddly,  the  face  of  Ste.  Marie  came  before  Miss  Ben- 
ham's  eyes  as  if  she  had  summoned  it  there.  But  she 
frowned  a  little  and  shook  her  head,  saying: 

"No,  I  can't  say  that  I  have.  But  that  means  nothing. 
There's  plenty  of  time  for  that.  And  you  know,"  she  said, 
after  a  pause — "you  know  I'm  rather  sure  I  could  fall  in 
love — pretty  hard.  I'm  sure  of  that.  Perhaps  I  have  been 
waiting.  Who  knows  ?" 

"Aye,  who  knows  ?"  said  David.  He  seemed  all  at  once 
to  lose  interest  in  the  subject,  as  old  people  often  do  with 
out  apparent  reason,  for  he  remained  silent  for  a  long 
time,  puffing  at  the  long  black  cigar  or  rolling  it  absently 
between  his  fingers.  After  awhile  he  laid  it  down  in  a 
metal  dish  which  stood  at  his  elbow,  and  folded  his  lean 
hands  before  him  over  the  invalid's  table.  He  was  still 
so  long  that  at  last  his  granddaughter  thought  he  had 
fallen  asleep,  and  she  began  to  rise  from  her  seat,  taking 
care  to  make  no  noise;  but  at  that  the  old  man  stirred  and 

42 


JASON 

put  out  his  hand  once  more  for  the  cigar.  "Was  young 
Richard  Hartley  at  your  dinner-party  ?"  he  asked,  and  she 
said: 

"Yes.  Oh  yes,  he  was  there.  He  and  M.  Ste.  Marie 
came  together,  I  believe.  They  are  very  close  friends." 

"Another  idler,"  growled  old  David.  "The  fellow's  a 
man  of  parts — and  a  man  of  family.  What's  he  idling 
about  here  for  ?  Why  isn't  he  in  Parliament,  where  he  be 
longs  ?" 

"Well,"  said  the  girl,  "I  should  think  it  is  because  he 
is  too  much  a  man  of  family — as  you  put  it.  You  see,  he'll 
succeed  his  cousin,  Lord  Risdale,  before  very  long,  and 
then  all  his  work  would  have  been  for  nothing,  because 
he'll  have  to  take  his  seat  in  the  Lords.  Lord  Risdale  is 
unmarried,  you  know,  and  a  hopeless  invalid.  He  may  die 
any  day.  I  think  I  sympathize  with  poor  Mr.  Hartley. 
It  would  be  a  pity  to  build  up  a  career  for  one's  self  in  the 
lower  House,  and  then  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  it,  have  to 
give  it  all  up.  The  situation  is  rather  paralyzing  to  en 
deavor,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Yes,  I  dare  say,"  said  old  David,  absently.  He  looked 
up  sharply.  "Young  Hartley  doesn't  come  here  as  much 
as  he  used  to  do." 

"No,"  said  Miss  Benham,  "he  doesn't."  She  gave  a 
little  laugh.  "To  avoid  cross-examination,"  she  said,  "I 
may  as  well  admit  that  he  asked  me  to  marry  him  and  I 
had  to  refuse.  I'm  sorry,  because  I  like  him  very  much, 
indeed." 

Old  David  made  an  inarticulate  sound  which  may  have 
been  meant  to  express  surprise — or  almost  anything  else. 
He  had  not  a  great  range  of  expression. 

"I  don't  want,"  said  he,  "to  seem  to  have  gone  daft  on 

43 


JASON 

the  subject  of  marriage,  and  I  see  no  reason  why  you 
should  be  in  any  haste  about  it.  Certainly  I  should  hate 
to  lose  you,  my  child,  but — Hartley  as  the  next  Lord  Ris- 
dale  is  undoubtedly  a  good  match.  And  you  say  you  like 
him." 

The  girl  looked  up  with  a  sort  of  defiance,  and  her  face 
was  a  little  flushed. 

"I  don't  love  him,"  she  said.  "I  like  him  immensely, 
but  I  don't  love  him,  and,  after  all — well,  you  say  I'm  cold, 
and  I  admit  I'm  more  or  less  ambitious,  but,  after  all — 
well,  I  just  don't  quite  love  him.  I  want  to  love  the  man 
I  marry." 

Old  David  Stewart  held  up  his  black  cigar  and  gazed 
thoughtfully  at  the  smoke  which  streamed  thin  and  blue 
and  veil-like  from  its  lighted  end. 

"Love!"  he  said,  in  a  reflective  tone.  "Love!"  He  re 
peated  the  word  two  or  three  times  slowly,  and  he  stirred 
a  little  in  his  bed.  "I  have  forgotten  what  it  is,"  said  he. 
"I  expect  I  must  be  very  old.  I  have  forgotten  what  love — 
that  sort  of  love — is  like.  It  seems  very  far  away  to  me  and 
rather  unimportant.  But  I  remember  that  I  thought  it 
important  enough  once,  a  century  or  two  ago.  Do  you 
know,  it  strikes  me  as  rather  odd  that  I  have  forgotten  what 
love  is  like.  It  strikes  me  as  rather  pathetic."  He  gave 
a  sort  of  uncouth  grimace  and  stuck  the  black  cigar  once 
more  into  his  mouth.  "Egad!"  said  he,  mumbling  in 
distinctly  over  the  cigar,  "how  foolish  love  seems  when  you 
look  back  at  it  across  fifty  or  sixty  years!" 

Miss  Benham  rose  to  her  feet  smiling,  and  she  came  and 
stood  near  where  the  old  man  lay  propped  up  against  his 
pillows.  She  touched  his  cheek  with  her  cool  hand,  and  old 
David  put  up  one  of  his  own  hands  and  patted  it. 

44 


JASON 

"I'm  going  to  bed  now,"  said  she.  "I've  sat  here  talking 
too  long.  You  ought  to  be  asleep,  and  so  ought  I." 

"Perhaps!  Perhaps!"  the  old  man  said.  "I  don't  feel 
sleepy,  though.  I  dare  say  I  shall  read  a  little."  He  held 
her  hand  in  his  and  looked  up  at  her. 

"I've  been  talking  a  great  deal  of  nonsense  about  mar 
riage,"  said  he.  "Put  it  out  of  your  head!  It's  all  non 
sense.  I  don't  want  you  to  marry  for  a  long  time.  I  don't 
want  to  lose  you."  His  face  twisted  a  little,  quite  suddenly. 
"You're  precious  near  all  I  have  left,  now,"  he  said. 

The  girl  did  not  answer  at  once,  for  it  seemed  to  her  that 
there  was  nothing  to  say.  She  knew  that  her  grandfather 
was  thinking  of  the  lost  boy,  and  she  knew  what  a  bitter 
blow  the  thing  had  been  to  him.  She  often  thought  that 
it  would  kill  him  before  his  old  malady  could  run  its  course. 

But  after  a  moment  she  said,  very  gently:  "We  won't  give 
up  hope.  We'll  never  give  up  hope.  Think!  he  might 
come  home  to-morrow!  Who  knows?" 

"If  he  has  stayed  away  of  his  own  accord,"  cried  out  old 
David  Stewart,  in  a  loud  voice,  "I'll  never  forgive  him — 
not  if  he  comes  to  me  to-morrow  on  his  knees!  Not  even 
if  he  comes  to  me  on  his  knees!" 

The  girl  bent  over  her  grandfather,  saying:  "Hush!  hush! 
You  mustn't  excite  yourself."  But  old  David's  gray  face 
was  working,  and  his  eyes  gleamed  from  their  cavernous 
shadows  with  a  savage  fire. 

"If  the  boy  is  staying  away  out  of  spite,"  he  repeated, 
"he  need  never  come  back  to  me.  I  won't  forgive  him." 
He  beat  his  unemployed  hand  upon  the  table  before  him, 
and  the  things  which  lay  there  jumped  and  danced.  "And 
if  he  waits  until  I'm  dead  and  then  comes  back,"  said  he, 
"he'll  find  he  has  made  a  mistake — a  great  mistake.  He'll 

45 


JASON 

find  a  surprise  in  store  for  him,  I  can  tell  you  that.  I  won't 
tell  you  what  I  have  done,  but  it  will  be  a  disagreeable  sur 
prise  for  Master  Arthur,  you  may  be  sure." 

The  old  gentleman  fell  to  frowning  and  muttering  in  his 
choleric  fashion,  but  the  fierce  glitter  began  to  go  out  of  his 
eyes  and  his  hands  ceased  to  tremble  and  clutch  at  the 
things  before  him.  The  girl  was  silent,  because  again 
there  seemed  to  her  to  be  nothing  that  she  could  say.  She 
longed  very  much  to  plead  her  brother's  cause,  but  she  was 
sure  that  would  only  excite  her  grandfather,  and  he  was 
growing  quieter  after  his  burst  of  anger.  She  bent  down 
over  him  and  kissed  his  cheek. 

"Try  to  go  to  sleep,"  she  said.  "And  don't  torture  your 
self  with  thinking  about  all  this.  I'm  as  sure  that  poor 
Arthur  is  not  staying  away  out  of  spite  as  if  he  were  myself. 
He's  foolish  and  headstrong,  but  he's  not  spiteful,  dear. 
Try  to  believe  that.  And  now  I'm  really  going.  Good 
night."  She  kissed  him  again  and  slipped  out  of  the  room. 
And  as  she  closed  the  door  she  heard  her  grandfather  pull 
the  bell-cord  which  hung  beside  him  and  summoned  the 
excellent  Peters  from  the  room  beyond. 


JASON   SETS  FORTH   UPON  THE   GREAT  ADVENTURE 

MISS  BENHAM  stood  at  one  of  the  long  drawing-room 
windows  of  the  house  in  the  rue  de  1'Universite,  and 
looked  out  between  the  curtains  upon  the  rather  grimy  little 
garden,  where  a  few  not  very  prosperous  cypresses  and 
chestnuts  stood  guard  over  the  rows  of  lilac  shrubs  and  the 
box-bordered  flower-beds  and  the  usual  moss-stained  foun 
tain.  She  was  thinking  of  the  events  of  the  past  month,  the 
month  which  had  elapsed  since  the  evening  of  the  De 
Saulnes'  dinner-party.  They  were  not  at  all  startling  events; 
in  a  practical  sense  there  were  no  events  at  all,  only  a  quiet 
sequence  of  affairs  which  was  about  as  inevitable  as  the 
night  upon  the  day — the  day  upon  the  night  again.  In  a 
word,  this  girl,  who  had  considered  herself  very  strong  and 
very  much  the  mistress  of  her  feelings,  found,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  that  her  strength  was  as  nothing  at  all 
against  the  potent  charm  and  magnetism  of  a  man  who 
had  almost  none  of  the  qualities  she  chiefly  admired  in  men. 
During  the  month's  time  she  had  passed  from  a  phase  ot 
angry  self-scorn  through  a  period  of  bewilderment  not  un 
mixed  with  fear,  and  from  that  she  had  come  into  an  un 
known  world,  a  land  very  strange  to  her,  where  old  standards 
and  judgments  seemed  to  be  valueless — a  place  seemingly 
ruled  altogether  by  new  emotions,  sweet  and  thrilling, 

47 


JASON 

or  full  of  vague  terrors  as  her  mood  veered  here  or 
there. 

That  sublimated  form  of  guesswork  which  is  called  "wom 
an's  intuition  "  told  her  that  Ste.  Marie  would  come  to  her 
on  this  afternoon,  and  that  something  in  the  nature  of  a 
crisis  would  have  to  be  faced.  It  can  be  proved  even  by 
poor  masculine  mathematics  that  guesswork,  like  other 
gambling  ventures,  is  bound  to  succeed  about  half  the  time, 
and  it  succeeded  on  this  occasion.  Even  as  Miss  Ben- 
ham  stood  at  the  window  looking  out  through  the  curtains, 
M.  Ste.  Marie  was  announced  from  the  doorway. 

She  turned  to  meet  him  with  a  little  frown  of  determina 
tion,  for  in  his  absence  she  was  often  very  strong,  indeed, 
and  sometimes  she  made  up  and  rehearsed  little  speeches 
of  great  dignity  and  decision  in  which  she  told  him  that  he 
was  attempting  a  quite  hopeless  thing,  and,  as  a  well- 
wishing  friend,  advised  him  to  go  away  and  attempt  it 
no  longer.  But  as  Ste.  Marie  came  quickly  across  the 
room  toward  her,  the  little  frown  wavered  and  at  last  fled 
from  her  face  and  another  look  came  there.  It  was  always 
so.  The  man's  bodily  presence  exerted  an  absolute  spell 
over  her. 

"I  have  been  sitting  with  your  grandfather  for  half  an 
hour,"  Ste.  Marie  said.  And  she  said: 

"Oh,  I'm  glad!  I'm  very  glad!  You  always  cheer  him 
up.  He  hasn't  been  too  cheerful  or  too  well  of  late." 
She  unnecessarily  twisted  a  chair  about,  and  after  a  mo 
ment  sat  down  in  it.  And  she  gave  a  little  laugh.  "This 
friendship  which  has  grown  up  between  my  grandfather  and 
you,"  said  she — "  I  don't  understand  it  at  all.  Of  course, 
he  knew  your  father  and  all  that;  but  you  two  seem  such 
very  different  types,  I  shouldn't  think  you  would  amuse 

48 


JASON 

each  other  at  all.  There's  Mr.  Hartley,  for  example.  I 
should  expect  my  grandfather  to  like  him  very  much  bet 
ter  than  you,  but  he  doesn't — though  I  fancy  he  approves  of 
him  much  more." 

She  laughed  again,  but  a  different  laugh;  and  when  he 
heard  it  Ste.  Marie's  eyes  gleamed  a  little  and  his  hands 
moved  beside  him. 

"I  expect,"  said  she — "I  expect,  you  know,  that  he  just 
likes  you  without  stopping  to  think  why — as  everybody 
else  does.  I  fancy  it's  just  that.  What  do  you  think  ?" 

"Oh,  I?"  said  the  man.  "I — how  should  I  know?  I 
know  it's  a  great  privilege  to  be  allowed  to  see  him — such 
a  man  as  that.  And  I  know  we  get  on  wonderfully  well. 
He  doesn't  condescend,  as  most  old  men  do  who  have  led 
important  lives.  We  just  talk  as  two  men  in  a  club  might 
talk,  and  I  tell  him  stories  and  make  him  laugh.  Oh  yes, 
we  get  on  wonderfully  well." 

"Oh,"  said  she,  "I've  often  wondered  what  you  talk 
about.  What  did  you  talk  about  to-day  ?" 

Ste.  Marie  turned  abruptly  away  from  her  and  went 
across  to  one  of  the  windows — the  window  where  she  had 
stood  earlier,  looking  out  upon  the  dingy  garden.  She  saw 
him  stand  there,  with  his  back  turned,  the  head  a  little 
bent,  the  hands  twisting  together  behind  him,  and  a  sudden 
fit  of  nervous  shivering  wrung  her.  Every  woman  knows 
when  a  certain  thing  is  going  to  be  said  to  her,  and  usually 
she  is  prepared  for  it,  though  usually,  also,  she  says  she 
is  not.  Miss  Benham  knew  what  was  coming  now,  and 
she  was  frightened,  not  of  Ste.  Marie,  but  of  herself.  It 
meant  so  very  much  to  her — more  than  to  most  women  at 
such  a  time.  It  meant,  if  she  said  yes  to  him,  the  sur 
render  of  almost  all  the  things  she  had  cared  for  and  hoped 

49 


JASON 

for.  It  meant  the  giving  up  of  that  career  which  old 
David  Stewart  had  dwelt  upon  a  month  ago. 

Ste.  Marie  turned  back  into  the  room.  He  came  a  little 
way  toward  where  the  girl  sat,  and  halted,  and  she  could 
see  that  he  was  very  pale.  A  sort  of  critical  second  self 
noticed  that  he  was  pale  and  was  surprised,  because,  al 
though  men's  faces  often  turn  red,  they  seldom  turn  notice 
ably  pale  except  in  very  great  nervous  crises — or  in  works 
of  fiction;  while  women,  on  the  contrary,  may  turn  red 
and  white  twenty  times  a  day,  and  no  harm  done.  He 
raised  his  hands  a  little  way  from  his  sides  in  the  beginning 
of  a  gesture,  but  they  dropped  again  as  if  there  was  no 
strength  in  them. 

"I  told  him,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  in  a  flat  voice — "I  told 
your  grandfather  that  I — loved  you  more  than  anything  in 
this  world  or  in  the  next.  I  told  him  that  my  love  for  you 
had  made  another  being  of  me — a  new  being.  I  told  him 
that  I  wanted  to  come  to  you  and  to  kneel  at  your  feet,  and 
to  ask  you  if  you  could  give  me  just  a  little,  little  hope — 
something  to  live  for,  a  light  to  climb  toward.  That  is 
what  we  talked  about,  your  grandfather  and  I." 

"Ste.  Marie!  Ste.  Marie!"  said  the  girl,  in  a  half  whis 
per.  "What  did  my  grandfather  say  to  you?"  she  asked, 
after  a  silence. 

Ste.  Marie  looked  away. 

"I  cannot  tell  you,"  he  said.  "He — was  not  quite 
sympathetic." 

The  girl  gave  a  little  cry. 

"Tell  me  what  he  said!"  she  demanded.  "I  must 
know  what  he  said." 

The  man's  eyes  pleaded  with  her,  but  she  held  him  with 
her  gaze,  and  in  the  end  he  gave  in. 

50 


JASON 

"He  said  I  was  a  damned  fool,"  said  Ste.  Marie. 

And  the  girl,  after  an  instant  of  staring,  broke  into  a 
little  fit  of  nervous,  overwrought  laughter,  and  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands. 

He  threw  himself  upon  his  knees  before  her,  and  her 
laughter  died  away.  An  Englishman  or  an  American  can 
not  do  that.  Richard  Hartley,  for  example,  would  have 
looked  like  an  idiot  upon  his  knees,  and  he  would  have 
felt  it.  But  it  did  not  seem  extravagant  with  Ste.  Marie. 
It  became  him. 

"Listen!  Listen!"  he  cried  to  her,  but  the  girl  checked 
him  before  he  could  go  on. 

She  dropped  her  hands  from  her  face,  and  she  bent  a 
little  forward  over  the  man  as  he  knelt  there.  She  put  out 
her  hands  and  took  his  head  for  a  swift  instant  between 
them,  looking  down  into  his  eyes.  At  the  touch  a  sudden 
wave  of  tenderness  swept  her — almost  an  engulfing  wave; 
it  almost  overwhelmed  her  and  bore  her  away  from  the 
land  she  knew.  And  so  when  she  spoke  her  voice  was  not 
quite  steady.  She  said: 

"Ah,  dear  Ste.  Marie!  I  cannot  pretend  to  be  cold 
toward  you.  You  have  laid  a  spell  upon  me,  Ste.  Marie. 
You  enchant  us  all,  somehow,  don't  you  ?  I  suppose  I'm 
not  so  different  from  the  others  as  I  thought  I  was.  And 
yet,"  she  said,  "he  was  right,  you  know.  My  grandfather 
was  right.  No,  let  me  talk,  now.  I  must  talk  for  a  little. 
I  must  try  to  tell  you  how  it  is  with  me — try  somehow  to 
find  a  way.  He  was  right.  He  meant  that  you  and  I  were 
utterly  unsuited  to  each  other,  and  so,  in  calm  moments,  I 
know  we  are.  I  know  that  well  enough.  When  you're 
not  with  me,  I  feel  very  sure  about  it.  I  think  of  a  thousand 
excellent  reasons  why  you  and  I  ought  to  be  no  more  to  each 


JASON 

other  than  friends.  Do  you  know,  I  think  my  grandfather 
is  a  little  uncanny.  I  think  he  has  prophetic  powers.  They 
say  very  old  people  often  have.  He  and  I  talked  about 
you  when  I  came  home  from  that  dinner-party  at  the  De 
Saulnes',  a  month  ago — the  dinner-party  where  you  and  I 
first  met.  I  told  him  that  I  had  met  a  man  whom  I  liked 
very  much — a  man  with  great  charm;  and  though  I  must 
have  said  the  same  sort  of  thing  to  him  before  about  other 
men,  he  was  quite  oddly  disturbed,  and  talked  for  a  long 
time  about  it — about  the  sort  of  man  I  ought  to  marry  and 
the  sort  I  ought  not  to  marry.  It  was  unusual  for  him. 
He  seldom  says  anything  of  that  kind.  Yes,  he  is  rigvit. 
You  see,  I'm  ambitious  in  a  particular  way.  If  I  marry  at 
all  I  ought  to  marry  a  man  who  is  working  hard  in  politics 
or  in  something  of  that  kind.  I  could  help  him.  We  could 
do  a  great  deal  together." 

"I  could  go  into  politics!"  cried  Ste.  Marie;  but  she  shook 
her  head,  smiling  down  upon  him. 

"No,  not  you,  my  dear.  Politics  least  of  all.  You  could 
be  a  soldier,  if  you  chose.  You  could  fight  as  your  father 
and  your  grandfather  and  the  others  of  your  house  have 
done.  You  could  lead  a  forlorn  hope  in  the  field.  You 
could  suffer  and  starve  and  go  on  fighting.  You  could  die 
splendidly,  but — politics,  no!  That  wants  a  tougher  shell 
than  you  have.  And  a  soldier's  wife!  Of  what  use  to  him 
is  she  ?" 

Ste.  Marie's  face  was  very  grave.  He  looked  up  to  her, 
smiling. 

"Do  you  set  ambition  before  love,  my  Queen  ?"  he  asked, 
and  she  did  not  answer  him  at  once. 

She  looked  into  his  eyes,  and  she  was  as  grave  as  he. 

"  Is  love  all  ?"  she  said,  at  last.  "  Is  love  all  ?  Ought  one 

52 


JASON 

to  think  of  nothing  but  love  when  one  is  settling  one's  life 
forever  ?  I  wonder  ?  I  look  about  me,  Ste.  Marie,"  she 
said,  "and  in  the  lives  of  my  friends — the  people  who 
seem  to  me  to  be  most  worth  while,  the  people  who  are 
making  the  world's  history  for  good  or  ill — and  it  seems  to  me 
that  in  their  lives  love  has  the  second  place — or  the  third. 
I  wonder  if  one  has  the  right  to  set  it  first.  There  is,  of 
course,"  she  said,  "the  merely  domestic  type  of  woman — 
the  woman  who  has  no  thought  and  no  interest  beyond  her 
home.  I  am  not  that  type  of  woman.  Perhaps  I  wish  I 
were.  Certainly  they  are  the  happiest.  But  I  was  brought 
up  among — well,  among  important  people — men  of  my 
grandfather's  kind.  All  my  training  has  been  toward  that 
life.  Have  I  the  right,  I  wonder,  to  give  it  all  up  ?" 

The  man  stirred  at  her  feet,  and  she  put  out  her  hands  to 
him  quickly. 

"Do  I  seem  brutal?"  she  cried.  "Oh,  I  don't  want  to 
be!  Do  I  seem  very  ungenerous  and  wrapped  up  in  my 
own  side  of  the  thing  ?  I  don't  mean  to  be  that,  but — I'm 
not  sure.  I  expect  it's  that.  I'm  not  sure,  and  I  think  I'm 
a  little  frightened."  She  gave  him  a  brief,  anxious  smile 
that  was  not  without  its  tenderness.  "I'm  so  sure,"  she 
said,  "when  I'm  away  from  you.  But  when  you're  here — 
oh,  I  forget  all  I've  thought  of.  You  lay  your  spell  upon 
me." 

Ste.  Marie  gave  a  little  wordless  cry  of  joy.  He  caught 
her  two  hands  in  his  and  held  them  against  his  lips.  Again 
that  great  wave  of  tenderness  swept  her,  almost  engulfing. 
But  when  it  had  ebbed  she  sank  back  once  more  in  her 
chair,  and  she  withdrew  her  hands  from  his  clasp. 

"You  make  me  forget  too  much,"  she  said.  "I  think 
you  make  me  forget  everything  that  I  ought  to  remember. 

53 


JASON 

Oh,  Ste.  Marie,  have  I  any  right  to  think  of  love  and 
happiness  while  this  terrible  mystery  is  upon  us — while  we 
don't  know  whether  poor  Arthur  is  alive  or  dead  ?  You've 
seen  what  it  has  brought  my  grandfather  to!  It  is  killing 
him.  He  has  been  much  worse  in  the  past  fortnight.  And 
my  mother  is  hardly  a  ghost  of  herself  in  these  days.  Ah, 
it  is  brutal  of  me  to  think  of  my  own  affairs — to  dream  of 
happiness  at  such  a  time."  She  smiled  across  at  him  very 
sadly.  "You  see  what  you  have  brought  me  to!"  she  said. 

Ste.  Marie  rose  to  his  feet.  If  Miss  Benham,  absorbed 
in  that  warfare  which  raged  within  her,  had  momentarily 
forgotten  the  cloud  of  sorrow  under  which  her  household 
lay,  so  much  the  more  had  he,  to  whom  the  sorrow  was 
less  intimate,  forgotten  it.  But  he  was  ever  swift  to  sym 
pathy,  Ste.  Marie — as  quick  as  a  woman,  and  as  tender. 
He  could  not  thrust  his  love  upon  the  girl  at  such  a  time  as 
this.  He  turned  a  little  away  from  her,  and  so  remained  for 
a  moment.  When  he  faced  about  again  the  flush  had  gone 
from  his  cheeks  and  the  fire  from  his  eyes.  Only  tenderness 
was  left  there. 

"There  has  been  no  news  at  all  this  week?"  he  asked, 
and  the  girl  shook  her  head. 

"None!  None!  Shall  we  ever  have  news  of  him,  I 
wonder  ?  Must  we  go  on  always  and  never  know  ?  It 
seems  to  me  almost  incredible  that  any  one  could  disappear 
so  completely.  And  yet,  I  dare  say,  many  people  have  done 
it  before  and  have  been  as  carefully  sought  for.  If  only  I 
could  believe  that  he  is  alive!  If  only  I  could  believe  that!" 

"I  believe  it,"  said  Ste.  Marie. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  "you  say  that  to  cheer  me.  You  have  no 
reason  to  offer." 

"Dead  bodies  very  seldom  disappear  completely,"  said 

54 


JASON 

he.  "If  your  brother  died  anywhere  there  would  be  a 
record  of  the  death.  If  he  were  accidentally  killed  there 
would  be  a  record  of  that,  too;  and,  of  course,  you  are  hav 
ing  all  such  records  constantly  searched  ?" 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said.  "Yes,  of  course — at  least,  I  sup 
pose  so.  My  uncle  has  been  directing  the  search.  Of 
course,  he  would  take  an  obvious  precaution  like  that." 

"Naturally,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "Your  uncle,  I  should 
say,  is  an  unusually  careful  man."  He  paused  a  moment 
to  smile.  "He  makes  his  little  mistakes,  though.  I  told 
you  about  that  man  O'Hara,  and  about  how  sure  Captain 
Stewart  was  that  the  name  was  Powers.  Do  you  know" — 
Ste.  Marie  had  been  walking  up  and  down  the  room,  but 
he  halted  to  face  her — "do  you  know,  I  have  a  very  strong 
feeling  that  if  one  could  find  this  man  O'Hara,  one  would 
learn  something  about  what  became  of  your  brother  ?  I 
have  no  reason  for  thinking  that,  but  I  feel  it." 

"Oh,"  said  the  girl,  doubtfully,  "I  hardly  think  that 
could  be  so.  What  motive  could  the  man  have  for  harm 
ing  my  brother  ?" 

"None,"  said  Ste.  Marie;  "but  he  might  have  an  ex 
cellent  motive  for  hiding  him  away — kidnapping  him.  Is 
that  the  word  ?  Yes,  I  know,  you're  going  to  say  that  no 
demand  has  been  made  for  money,  and  that  is  where  my 
argument — if  I  can  call  it  an  argument — is  weak.  But 
the  fellow  may  be  biding  his  time.  Anyhow,  I  should  like 
to  have  five  minutes  alone  with  him.  I'll  tell  you  another 
thing.  It's  a  trifle,  and  it  may  be  of  no  consequence,  but 
I  add  it  to  my  vague  and — if  you  like — foolish  feeling,  and 
make  something  out  of  it.  I  happened,  some  days  ago,  to 
meet  at  the  Cafe  de  Paris  a  man  who  I  knew  used  to  know 
this  O'Hara.  He  was  not,  I  think,  a  friend  of  his  at  all, 

5  55 


JASON 

but  an  acquaintance.  I  asked  him  what  had  become  of 
O'Hara,  saying  that  I  hadn't  seen  him  in  some  weeks. 
Well,  this  man  said  O'Hara  had  gone  away  somewhere  a 
couple  of  months  ago.  He  didn't  seem  at  all  surprised, 
for  it  appears  the  Irishman — if  he  is  an  Irishman — is  de 
cidedly  a  haphazard  sort  of  person,  here  to-day,  gone  to 
morrow.  No,  the  man  wasn't  surprised,  but  he  was  rather 
angry,  because  he  said  O'Hara  owed  him  some  money.  I 
said  I  thought  he  must  be  mistaken  about  the  fellow's 
absence,  because  I'd  seen  him  in  the  street  within  the 
month — on  the  evening  of  our  dinner-party,  you  remem 
ber — but  this  man  was  very  sure  that  I  had  made  a  mis 
take.  He  said  that  if  O'Hara  had  been  in  town  he  was 
sure  to  have  known  it.  Well,  the  point  is  here.  Your 
brother  disappears  at  a  certain  time.  At  the  same  time 
this  Irish  adventurer  disappears,  too,  and  your  brother  was 
known  to  have  frequented  the  Irishman's  company.  It 
may  be  only  a  coincidence,  but  I  can't  help  feeling  that 
there's  something  in  it." 

Miss  Benham  was  sitting  up  straight  in  her  chair  with 
a  little  alert  frown. 

"Have  you  spoken  of  this  to  my  uncle  ?"  she  demanded. 

"Well— no,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "Not  the  latter  part  of 
it — that  is,  not  my  having  heard  of  O'Hara's  disappearance. 
In  the  first  place,  I  learned  of  that  only  three  days  ago,  and 
I  have  not  seen  Captain  Stewart  since — I  rather  expected 
to  find  him  here  to-day;  and,  in  the  second  place,  I  was 
quite  sure  that  he  would  only  laugh.  He  has  laughed  at 
me  two  or  three  times  for  suggesting  that  this  Irishman 
might  know  something.  Captain  Stewart  is — not  easy  to 
convince,  you  know." 

"I  know,"  she  said,  looking  away.  "He's  always  very 

56 


JASON 

certain  that  he's  right.  Well,  perhaps  he  is  right.  Who 
knows?"  She  gave  a  little  sob.  "Oh!"  she  cried,  "shall 
we  ever  have  my  brother  back  ?  Shall  we  ever  see  him 
again  ?  It  is  breaking  my  heart,  Ste.  Marie,  and  it  is  kill 
ing  my  grandfather  and,  I  think,  my  mother,  too!  Oh, 
can  nothing  be  done  ?" 

Ste.  Marie  was  walking  up  and  down  the  floor  before 
her,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back.  When  she  had 
finished  speaking  the  girl  saw  him  halt  beside  one  of  the 
windows,  and  after  a  moment  she  saw  his  head  go  up 
sharply  and  she  heard  him  give  a  sudden  cry.  She  thought 
he  had  seen  something  from  the  window  which  had  wrung 
that  exclamation  from  him,  and  she  asked: 

"What  is  it  ?" 

But  abruptly  the  man  turned  back  into  the  room  and 
came  across  to  where  she  sat.  It  seemed  to  her  that  his 
face  had  a  new  look — a  very  strange  exaltation  which  she 
had  never  before  seen  there.  He  said: 

"Listen!  I  do  not  know  if  anything  can  be  done  that 
has  not  been  done  already,  but  if  there  is  anything  I  shall 
do  it,  you  may  be  sure." 

"  You,  Ste.  Marie  ?"  she  cried,  in  a  sharp  voice.     "  You  ?" 

"And  why  not  I  ?"  he  demanded. 

"Oh,  my  friend,"  said  she,  "you  could  do  nothing! 
You  wouldn't  know  where  to  turn,  how  to  set  to  work. 
Remember  that  a  score  of  men  who  are  skilled  in  this 
kind  of  thing  have  been  searching  for  two  months.  What 
could  you  do  that  they  haven't  done  ?" 

"I  do  not  know,  my  Queen,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  "but  I 
shall  do  what  I  can.  Who  knows  ?  Sometimes  the  fool 
who  rushes  in  where  angels  have  feared  to  tread  succeeds 
where  they  have  failed.  Oh,  let  me  do  this!"  he  cried  out. 

57 


JASON 

"Let  me  do  it  for  both  our  sakes — for  yours  and  for  mine! 
It  is  for  your  sake  most.  I  swear  that!  It  is  to  set  you  at 
peace  again,  bring  back  the  happiness  you  have  lost.  But 
it  is  for  my  sake,  too,  a  little.  It  will  be  a  test  of  me,  a 
trial.  If  I  can  succeed  here  where  so  many  have  failed, 
if  I  bring  back  your  brother  to  you — or,  at  least,  discover 
what  has  become  of  him — I  shall  be  able  to  come  to  you 
with  less  shame  for  my — unworthiness." 

He  looked  down  upon  her  with  eager,  burning  eyes, 
and,  after  a  little,  the  girl  rose  to  face  him.  She  was  very 
white,  and  she  stared  at  him  silently. 

"When  I  came  to  you  to-day,"  he  went  on,  "I  knew 
that  I  had  nothing  to  offer  you  but  my  faithful  love  and 
my  life,  which  has  been  a  life  without  value.  In  exchange 
for  that  I  asked  too  much.  I  knew  it,  and  you  knew  it, 
too.  I  know  well  enough  what  sort  of  man  you  ought  to 
marry,  and  what  a  brilliant  career  you  could  make  for 
yourself  in  the  proper  place — what  great  influence  you 
could  wield.  But  I  asked  you  to  give  that  all  up,  and  I 
hadn't  anything  to  offer  in  its  place — nothing  but  love. 
My  Queen,  give  me  a  chance  now  to  offer  you  more!  If 
I  can  bring  back  your  brother  or  news  of  him,  I  can  come 
to  you  without  shame  and  ask  you  to  marry  me,  because 
if  I  can  succeed  in  that  you  will  know  that  I  can  succeed 
in  other  things.  You  will  be  able  to  trust  me.  You'll 
know  that  I  can  climb.  It  shall  be  a  sort  of  symbol.  Let 
me  go!" 

The  girl  broke  into  a  sort  of  sobbing  laughter. 

"Oh,  divine  madman!"  she  cried.  "Are  you  all  mad, 
you  Ste.  Maries,  that  you  must  be  forever  leading  forlorn 
hopes?  Oh,  how  you  are,  after  all,  a  Ste.  Marie!  Now, 
at  last,  I  know  why  one  cannot  but  love  you.  You're  the 

58 


JASON 

knight  of  old.  You're  chivalry  come  down  to  us.  You're 
a  ghost  out  of  the  past  when  men  rode  in  armor  with  pure 
hearts  seeking  the  Great  Adventure.  Oh,  my  friend,"  she 
said,  "be  wise.  Give  this  up  in  time.  It  is  a  beautiful 
thought,  and  I  love  you  for  it,  but  it  is  madness — yes,  yes, 
a  sweet  madness,  but  mad,  nevertheless!  What  possible 
chance  would  you  have  of  success  ?  And  think  —  think 
how  failure  would  hurt  you — and  me!  You  must  not  do 
it,  Ste.  Marie." 

"Failure  will  never  hurt  me,  my  Queen,"  said  he,  "be 
cause  there  are  no  hurts  in  the  grave,  and  I  shall  never  give 
over  searching  until  I  succeed  or  until  I  am  dead."  His 
face  was  uplifted,  and  there  was  a  sort  of  splendid  fervor 
upon  it.  It  was  as  if  it  shone. 

The  girl  stared  at  him  dumbly.  She  began  to  realize 
that  the  knightly  spirit  of  those  gallant,  long  dead  gentle 
men  was  indeed  descended  upon  the  last  of  their  house, 
that  he  burnt  with  the  same  pure  fire  which  had  long 
ago  lighted  them  through  quest  and  adventure,  and  she 
was  a  little  afraid  with  an  almost  superstitious  fear.  She 
put  out  her  hands  upon  the  man's  shoulders,  and  she 
moved  a  little  closer  to  him,  holding  him. 

"Oh,  madness,  madness!"  she  said,  watching  his  face. 

"Let  me  do  it!"  said  Ste.  Marie. 

And  after  a  silence  that  seemed  to  endure  for  a  long 
time,  she  sighed,  shaking  her  head,  and  said  she: 

"Oh,  my  friend,  there  is  no  strength  in  me  to  stop  you. 
I  think  we  are  both  a  little  mad,  and  I  know  that  you  are 
very  mad,  but  I  cannot  say  no.  You  seem  to  have  come 
out  of  another  century  to  take  up  this  quest.  How  can  I 
prevent  you  ?  But  listen  to  one  thing.  If  I  accept  this 
sacrifice,  if  I  let  you  give  your  time  and  your  strength  to 

59 


JASON 

this  almost  hopeless  attempt,  it  must  be  understood  that 
it  is  to  be  within  certain  limits.  I  will  not  accept  any  in 
definite  thing.  You  may  give  your  efforts  to  trying  to  find 
trace  of  my  brother  for  a  month  if  you  like,  or  for  three 
months,  or  six,  or  even  a  year,  but  not  for  more  than  that. 
If  he  is  not  found  in  a  year's  time  we  shall  know  that — we 
shall  know  that  he  is  dead,  and  that — further  search  is  use 
less.  I  cannot  say  how  I —  Oh,  Ste.  Marie,  Ste.  Marie, 
this  is  a  proof  of  you,  indeed!  And  I  have  called  you  idle. 
I  have  said  hard  things  of  you.  It  is  very  bitter  to  me  to 
think  that  I  have  said  those  things." 

"They  were  true,  my  Queen,"  said  he,  smiling.  "They 
were  quite,  quite  true.  It  is  for  me  to  prove  now  that  they 
shall  be  true  no  longer."  He  took  the  girl's  hand  in  his 
rather  ceremoniously,  and  bent  his  head  and  kissed  it. 
As  he  did  so  he  was  aware  that  she  stirred,  all  at  once,  un 
easily,  and  when  he  had  raised  his  head  he  looked  at  her 
in  question. 

"I  thought  some  one  was  coming  into  the  room,"  she 
explained,  looking  beyond  him.  "I  thought  some  one 
started  to  come  in  between  the  portieres  yonder.  It  must 
have  been  a  servant." 

"Then  it  is  understood,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "To  bring 
you  back  your  happiness,  and  to  prove  myself  in  some  way 
worthy  of  your  love,  I  am  to  devote  myself  with  all  my 
effort  and  all  my  strength  to  finding  your  brother  or  some 
trace  of  him,  and  until  I  succeed  I  will  not  see  your  face 
again,  my  Queen." 

"Oh,  that!"  she  cried— "that,  too?" 
"I   will   not    see   you,"   said   he,    "until   I    bring   you 
news   of  him,  or   until    my   year   is    passed  and  I   have 
failed   utterly.      I   know   what    risk    I    run.      If   I    fail, 

60 


JASON 

I  lose  you.  That  is  understood,  too.  But  if  I  suc 
ceed—" 

"Then?"  she  said,  breathing  quickly.     "Then?" 

"Then,"  said  he,  "I  shall  come  to  you,  and  I  shall  feel 
no  shame  in  asking  you  to  marry  me,  because  then  you 
will  know  that  there  is  in  me  some  little  worthiness,  and 
that  in  our  lives  together  you  need  not  be  buried  in  obscu 
rity — lost  to  the  world." 

"I  cannot  find  any  words  to  say,"  said  she.  "I  am  feel 
ing  just  now  very  humble  and  very  ashamed.  It  seems 
that  I  haven't  known  you  at  all.  Oh  yes,  I  am  ashamed.'' 

The  girl's  face,  habitually  so  cool  and  composed,  was 
flushed  with  a  beautiful  flush,  and  it  had  softened,  and  it 
seemed  to  quiver  between  a  smile  and  a  tear.  With  a 
swift  movement  she  leaned  close  to  him,  holding  by  his 
shoulder,  and  for  an  instant  her  cheek  was  against  his. 
She  whispered  to  him: 

"Oh,  find  him  quickly,  my  dear!  Find  him  quickly,  and 
come  back  to  me!" 

Ste.  Marie  began  to  tremble,  and  she  stood  away  from 
him.  Once  he  looked  up,  but  the  flush  was  gone  from 
Miss  Benham's  cheeks  and  she  was  pale  again.  She  stood 
with  her  hands  tight  clasped  over  her  breast.  So  he  bowed 
to  her  very  low,  and  turned  and  went  out  of  the  room  and 
out  of  the  house. 

So  quickly  did  he  move  at  this  last  that  a  man  who  had 
been,  for  some  moments,  standing  just  outside  the  por 
tieres  of  the  doorway  had  barely  time  to  step  aside  into 
the  shadows  of  the  dim  hall.  As  it  was,  Ste.  Marie,  in  a 
more  normal  moment,  must  have  seen  that  the  man  was 
there;  but  his  eyes  were  blind,  and  he  saw  nothing.  He 
groped  for  his  hat  and  stick  as  if  the  place  were  a  place  of 

61 


JASON 

gloom,  and,  because  the  footman  who  should  have  been  at 
the  door  was  in  regions  unknown,  he  let  himself  out,  and  so 
went  away. 

Then  the  man  who  stood  apart  in  the  shadows  crossed 
the  hall  to  a  small  room  which  was  furnished  as  a  library, 
but  not  often  used.  He  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and 
went  to  one  of  the  windows  which  gave  upon  the  street. 
And  he  stood  there  for  a  long  time,  drawing  absurd  in 
visible  pictures  upon  the  glass  with  one  finger  and  staring 
thoughtfully  out  into  the  late  June  afternoon. 


VI 


A   BRAVE  GENTLEMAN  RECEIVES  A  HURT,   BUT  VOLUNTEERS 
IN   A   GOOD   CAUSE 

WHEN  Ste.  Marie  had  gone,  Miss  Benham  sat  alone  in 
the  drawing-room  for  almost  an  hour.  She  had  been 
stirred  that  afternoon  more  deeply  than  she  thought  she 
had  ever  been  stirred  before,  and  she  needed  time  to  regain 
that  cool  poise,  that  mental  equilibrium,  which  was  normal 
to  her  and  necessary  for  coherent  thought. 

She  was  still  in  a  sort  of  fever  of  bewilderment  and 
exaltation,  still  all  aglow  with  the  man's  own  high  fervor; 
but  the  second  self  which  so  often  sat  apart  from  her,  and 
looked  on  with  critical,  mocking  eyes,  whispered  that  to 
morrow,  the  fever  past,  the  fervor  cooled,  she  must  see  the 
thing  in  its  true  light — a  glorious  lunacy  born  of  a  moment 
of  enthusiasm.  It  was  finely  romantic  of  him,  this  mocking 
second  self  whispered  to  her — picturesque  beyond  criticism 
— but,  setting  aside  the  practical  folly  of  it,  could  even  the 
mood  last  ? 

The  girl  rose  to  her  feet  with  an  angry  exclamation. 
She  found  herself  intolerable  at  such  times  as  this. 

"If  there's  a  heaven,"  she  cried  out,  "and  by  chance 
I  ever  go  there,  I  suppose  I  shall  walk  sneering  through 
the  streets  and  saying  to  myself:  'Oh  yes,  it's  pretty  enough, 
but  how  absurd  and  unpractical!'" 

63 


JASON 

She  passed  before  one  of  the  small,  narrow  mirrors  which 
were  let  into  the  walls  of  the  room  in  gilt  Louis  Seize  frames 
with  candles  beside  them,  and  she  turned  and  stared  at  her 
very  beautiful  reflection  with  a  resentful  wonder. 

"Shall  I  always  drag  along  so  far  behind  him  ?"  she  said. 
"Shall  I  never  rise  to  him,  save  in  the  moods  of  an  hour  ?" 

She  began  suddenly  to  realize  what  the  man's  going  away 
meant — that  she  might  not  see  him  again  for  weeks,  months, 
even  a  year.  For  was  it  at  all  likely  that  he  could  succeed 
in  what  he  had  undertaken  ? 

"Why  did  I  let  him  go  ?"  she  cried.  "Oh,  fool,  fool,  to 
let  him  go!"  But  even  as  she  said  it  she  knew  that  she 
could  not  have  held  him  back. 

She  began  to  be  afraid,  not  for  him,  but  of  herself.  He 
had  taught  her  what  it  might  be  to  love.  For  the  first 
time  love's  premonitory  thrill — promise  of  unspeakable, 
uncomprehended  mysteries — had  wrung  her,  and  the  echo 
of  that  thrill  stirred  in  her  yet;  but  what  might  not  happen 
in  his  long  absence  ?  She  was  afraid  of  that  critical  and 
analyzing  power  of  mind  which  she  had  so  long  trained  to 
attack  all  that  came  to  her.  What  might  it  not  work  with 
the  new  thing  that  had  come  ?  To  what  pitiful  shreds 
might  it  not  be  rent  while  he  who  only  could  renew  it  was 
away?  She  looked  ahead  at  the  weeks  and  months  to 
come,  and  she  was  terribly  afraid. 

She  went  out  of  the  room  and  up  to  her  grandfather's 
chamber  and  knocked  there.  The  admirable  Peters,  who 
opened  to  her,  said  that  his  master  had  not  been  very  well, 
and  was  just  then  asleep,  but  as  they  spoke  together  in 
low  tones  the  old  gentleman  cried,  testily,  from  within: 

"Well?  Well?  Who's  there?  Who  wants  to  see  me? 
Who  is  it  ?" 

64 


JASON 

Miss  Benham  went  into  the  dim,  shaded  room,  and  when 
old  David  saw  who  it  was  he  sank  back  upon  his  pillows 
with  a  pacified  growl.  He  certainly  looked  ill,  and  he  had 
grown  thinner  and  whiter  within  the  past  month,  and  the 
lines  in  his  waxlike  face  seemed  to  be  deeper  scored. 

The  girl  went  up  beside  the  bed  and  stood  there  a  mo 
ment,  after  she  had  bent  over  and  kissed  her  grandfather's 
cheek,  stroking  with  her  hand  the  absurdly  gorgeous  man 
darin's  jacket — an  imperial  yellow  one  this  time. 

"Isn't  this  new?"  she  asked.  "I  seem  never  to  have 
seen  this  one  before.  It's  quite  wonderful." 

The  old  gentleman  looked  down  at  it  with  the  pride  of 
a  little  girl  over  her  first  party  frock.  He  came  as  near 
simpering  as  a  fierce  person  of  eighty-six,  with  a  square 
white  beard,  can  come. 

"Rather  good— what  ?  What?"  said  he.  "Yes,  it's 
new.  De  Vries  sent  it  me.  It  is  my  best  one.  Imperial 
yellow.  Did  you  notice  the  little  Show  medallions  with  the 
swastika  ?  Young  Ste.  Marie  was  here  this  afternoon." 
He  introduced  the  name  with  no  pause  or  change  of  ex 
pression,  as  if  Ste.  Marie  were  a  part  of  the  decoration  of 
the  mandarin's  jacket.  "I  told  him  he  was  a  damned  fool." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Benham,  "I  know.  He  said  you  did. 
I  suppose,"  she  said,  "that  in  a  sort  of  very  informal  fash 
ion  I  am  engaged  to  him.  Well,  no,  perhaps  not  quite 
that;  but  he  seems  to  consider  himself  engaged  to  me, 
and  when  he  has  finished  something  very  important  that 
he  has  undertaken  to  do  he  is  coming  to  ask  me  definitely 
to  marry  him.  No,  I  suppose  we  aren't  engaged  yet;  at 
least,  I'm  not.  But  it's  almost  the  same,  because  I  suppose 
I  shall  accept  him  whether  he  fails  or  succeeds  in  what  he 
is  doing." 

65 


JASON 

"If  he  fails  in  it,  whatever  it  may  be,"  said  old  David, 
"he  won't  give  you  a  chance  to  accept  him;  he  won't 
come  back.  I  know  him  well  enough  for  that.  He's 
a  romantic  fool,  but  he's  a  thoroughgoing  fool.  He  plays 
the  game."  The  old  man  looked  up  to  his  granddaughter, 
scowling  a  little.  "You  two  are  absurdly  unsuited  to  each 
other,"  said  he,  "and  I  told  Ste.  Marie  so.  I  suppose  you 
think  you're  in  love  with  him." 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  "I  suppose  I  do." 

"Idleness  and  all?  You  were  rather  severe  on  idleness 
at  one  time." 

"He  isn't  idle  any  more,"  said  she.  "He  has  under 
taken — of  his  own  accord — to  find  Arthur.  He  has  some 
theory  about  it;  and  he  is  not  going  to  see  me  again  until 
he  has  succeeded — or  until  a  year  is  past.  If  he  fails,  I 
fancy  he  won't  come  back." 

Old  David  gave  a  sudden  hoarse  exclamation,  and  his 
withered  hands  shook  and  stirred  before  him.  Afterward 
he  fell  to  half-inarticulate  muttering. 

"The  young  romantic  fool! — Don  Quixote — like  all  the 
rest  of  them — those  Ste.  Maries.  The  fool  and  the  angels. 
The  angels  and  the  fool." 

The  girl  distinguished  words  from  time  to  time.  For 
the  most  part,  he  mumbled  under  his  breath.  But  when 
he  had  been  silent  a  long  time,  he  said,  suddenly: 

"It  would  be  ridiculously  like  him  to  succeed." 

The  girl  gave  a  little  sigh. 

"I  wish  I  dared  hope  for  it,"  said  she.  "I  wish  I  dared 
hope  for  it." 

She  had  left  a  book  that  she  wanted  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and,  when  presently  her  grandfather  fell  asleep  in 
his  fitful  manner,  she  went  down  after  it.  In  crossing  the 

66 


JASON 

hall  she  came  upon  Captain  Stewart,  who  was  dressed  for 
the  street  and  had  his  hat  and  stick  in  his  hands.  He  did 
not  live  in  his  father's  house,  for  he  had  a  little  flat  in  the 
rue  du  Faubourg  St.  Honore,  but  he  was  in  and  out  a 
good  deal.  He  paused  when  he  saw  his  niece,  and  smiled 
upon  her  a  benignant  smile  which  she  rather  disliked,  be 
cause  she  disliked  benignant  people.  The  two  really  saw 
very  little  of  each  other,  though  Captain  Stewart  often  sat 
for  hours  together  with  his  sister,  up  in  a  little  boudoir 
which  she  had  furnished  in  the  execrable  taste  which  to 
her  meant  comfort,  while  that  timid  and  colorless  lady 
embroidered  strange  tea  cloths  with  stranger  flora,  and 
prattled  about  the  heathen,  in  whom  she  had  an  academic 
interest. 

He  said:  "Ah,  my  dear!     It's  you?" 

Indisputably  it  was,  and  there  seemed  to  be  no  use  of 
denying  it,  so  Miss  Benham  said  nothing,  but  waited  for 
the  man  to  go  on  if  he  had  more  to  say. 

"I  dropped  in,"  he  continued,  "to  see  my  father,  but 
they  told  me  he  was  asleep,  and  so  I  didn't  disturb  him. 
I  talked  a  little  while  with  your  mother  instead." 

"I  have  just  come  from  him,"  said  Miss  Benham.  "He 
dozed  off"  again  as  I  left.  Still,  if  you  had  anything  in  par 
ticular  to  tell  him,  he'd  be  glad  to  be  wakened,  I  fancy. 
There's  no  news  ?" 

"No,"  said  Captain  Stewart,  sadly — "no,  nothing.  I  do 
not  give  up  hope,  but  I  am,  I  confess,  a  little  discour 
aged." 

"We  are  all  that,  I  should  think,"  said  Miss  Benham, 
briefly. 

She  gave  him  a  little  nod  and  turned  away  into  the 
drawing-room.  Her  uncle's  peculiar  dry  manner  irritated 

67 


JASON 

her  at  times  beyond  bearing,  and  she  felt  that  this  was  one 
of  the  times.  She  had  never  had  any  reason  for  doubting 
that  he  was  a  good  and  kindly  soul,  but  she  disliked  him 
because  he  bored  her.  Her  mother  bored  her,  too — the 
poor  woman  bored  everybody — but  the  sense  of  filial  obli 
gation  was  strong  enough  in  the  girl  to  prevent  her  from 
acknowledging  this  even  to  herself.  In  regard  to  her  uncle 
she  had  no  sense  of  obligation  whatever,  except  to  be  as 
civil  to  him  as  possible,  and  so  she  kept  out  of  his  way. 
She  heard  the  heavy  front  door  close,  and  gave  a  little  sigh 
of  relief. 

"If  he  had  come  in  here  and  tried  to  talk  to  me,"  she 
said,  "I  should  have  screamed." 

Meanwhile  Ste.  Marie,  a  man  moving  in  a  dream,  up 
lifted,  cloud-enwrapped,  made  his  way  homeward.  He 
walked  all  the  long  distance — that  is,  looking  backward 
upon  it,  later,  he  thought  he  must  have  walked,  but  the 
half-hour  was  a  blank  to  him,  an  indeterminate,  a  chaotic 
whirl  of  things  and  emotions. 

In  the  little  flat  in  the  rue  d'Assas  he  came  upon  Richard 
Hartley,  who,  having  found  the  door  unlocked  and  the 
master  of  the  place  absent,  had  sat  comfortably  down,  with 
a  pipe  and  a  stack  of  Couriers  Francois,  to  wait.  Ste.  Marie 
burst  into  the  doorway  of  the  room  where  his  friend  sat  at 
ease.  Hat,  gloves,  and  stick  fell  away  from  him  in  a  sort 
of  shower.  He  extended  his  arms  high  in  the  air.  His 
face  was,  as  it  were,  luminous.  The  Englishman  regarded 
him  morosely.  He  said: 

"You  look  as  if  somebody  had  died  and  left  you  money. 
What  the  devil  you  looking  like  that  for  ?" 

"He!"  cried  Ste.  Marie,  in  a  great  voice.  "He,  the 

68 


JASON 

world  is  mine!  Embrace  me,  my  infant!  Sacred  name 
of  a  pig,  why  do  you  sit  there?  Embrace  me!" 

He  began  to  stride  about  the  room,  his  head  between  his 
hands.  Speech  lofty  and  ridiculous  burst  from  him  in 
a  sort  of  splutter  of  fireworks,  but  the  Englishman  sat  still 
in  his  chair,  and  a  gray,  bleak  look  came  upon  him,  for  he 
began  to  understand.  He  was  more  or  less  used  to  these 
outbursts,  and  he  bore  them  as  patiently  as  he  could,  but 
though  seven  times  out  of  the  ten  they  were  no  more  than 
spasms  of  pure  joy  of  living,  and  meant,  "It's  a  fine  spring 
day,"  or  "I've  just  seen  two  beautiful  princesses  of  milli 
ners  in  the  street,"  an  inner  voice  told  him  that  this  time  it 
meant  another  thing.  Quite  suddenly  he  realized  that  he 
had  been  waiting  for  this — bracing  himself  against  its  on 
slaught.  He  had  not  been  altogether  blind  through  the 
past  month.  Ste.  Marie  seized  him  and  dragged  him  from 
his  chair. 

"Dance,  lump  of  flesh!  Dance,  sacred  English  rosbif 
that  you  are!  Sing,  gros  polisson!  Sing!"  Abruptly,  as 
usual,  the  mania  departed  from  him,  but  not  the  glory;  his 
eyes  shone  bright  and  triumphant.  "Ah,  my  old,"  said 
he,  "I  am  near  the  stars  at  last.  My  feet  are  on  the  top 
rungs  of  the  ladder.  Tell  me  that  you  are  glad!" 

The  Englishman  drew  a  long  breath. 

"I  take  it,"  said  he,  "that  means  that  you're — that  she 
has  accepted  you,  eh  ?"  He  held  out  his  hand.  He  was  a 
brave  and  honest  man.  Even  in  pain  he  was  incapable  of 
jealousy.  He  said:  "I  ought  to  want  to  murder  you,  but  I 
don't.  I  congratulate  you.  You're  an  undeserving  beggar, 
but  so  were  the  rest  of  us.  It  was  an  open  field,  and  you've 
won  quite  honestly.  My  best  wishes!" 

Then  at  last  Ste.  Marie  understood,  and  in  a  flash  the 

69 


JASON 

glory  went  out  of  his  face.     He  cried:  "Ah,  mon  cher  ami! 
Pig  that  I  am  to  forget.     Pig!     Pig!     Animal!" 

The  other  man  saw  that  tears  had  sprung  to  his  eyes,  and 
was  horribly  embarrassed  to  the  very  bottom  of  his  good 
British  soul. 

"Yes!  Yes!"  he  said,  gruffly.  "Quite  so,  quite  so! 
No  consequence!"  He  dragged  his  hands  away  from  Ste. 
Marie's  grasp,  stuck  them  in  his  pockets,  and  turned  to  the 
window  beside  which  he  had  been  sitting.  It  looked  out 
over  the  sweet  green  peace  of  the  Luxembourg  Gardens, 
with  their  winding  paths  and  their  clumps  of  trees  and 
shrubbery,  their  flaming  flower-beds,  their  groups  of  weather- 
stained  sculpture.  A  youth  in  laborer's  corduroys  and  an 
unclean  beret  strolled  along  under  the  high  palings;  one 
arm  was  about  the  ample  waist  of  a  woman  somewhat  the 
youth's  senior,  but,  as  ever,  love  was  blind.  The  youth 
carolled  in  a  high,  clear  voice,  "Vous  etes  si  jolie,"  a  song 
of  abundant  sentiment,  and  the  woman  put  up  one  hand 
and  patted  his  cheek.  So  they  strolled  on  and  turned  up 
into  the  rue  Vavin. 

Ste.  Marie,  across  the  room,  looked  at  his  friend's  square 
back,  and  knew  that  in  his  silent  way  the  man  was  suffering. 
A  great  sadness,  the  recoil  from  his  trembling  heights  of 
bliss,  came  upon  him  and  enveloped  him.  Was  it  true  that 
one  man's  joy  must  inevitably  be  another's  pain  ?  He  tried 
to  imagine  himself  in  Hartley's  place,  Hartley  in  his,  and 
he  gave  a  little  shiver.  He  knew  that  if  that  bouleversement 
were  actually  to  take  place  he  would  be  as  glad  for  his 
friend's  sake  as  poor  Hartley  was  now  for  his,  but  he  knew 
also  that  the  smile  of  congratulation  would  be  a  grimace  of 
almost  intolerable  pain,  and  so  he  knew  what  Hartley's 
black  hour  must  be  like. 

70 


JASON 

"You  must  forgive  me,"  he  said.  "I  had  forgotten. 
I  don't  know  why.  Well,  yes,  happiness  is  a  very  selfish 
state  of  mind,  I  suppose.  One  thinks  of  nothing  but  one's 
self — and  one  other.  I — during  this  past  month  I've  been 
in  the  clouds.  You  must  forgive  me." 

The  Englishman  turned  back  into  the  room.  Ste.  Marie 
saw  that  his  face  was  as  completely  devoid  of  expression 
as  it  usually  was,  that  his  hands,  when  he  chose  and  lighted 
a  cigarette,  were  quite  steady,  and  he  marvelled.  That 
would  have  been  impossible  for  him  under  such  circum 
stances. 

"She  has  accepted  you,  I  take  it  ?"  said  Hartley  again. 

"Not  quite  that,"  said  he.  "Sit  down  and  I'll  tell  you 
about  it."  So  he  told  .him  about  his  hour  with  Miss  Ben- 
ham,  and  about  what  had  been  agreed  upon  between  them, 
and  about  what  he  had  undertaken  to  do.  "Apart  from 
wishing  to  do  everything  in  this  world  that  I  can  do  to 
make  her  happy,"  he  said  —  "and  she  will  never  be  at 
peace  again  until  she  knows  the  truth  about  her  brother — 
apart  from  that,  I'm  purely  selfish  in  the  thing.  I've  got  to 
win  her  respect,  as  well  as — the  rest.  I  want  her  to  respect 
me,  and  she  has  never  quite  done  that.  I'm  an  idler.  So 
are  you,  but  you  have  a  perfectly  good  excuse.  I  have  not. 
I've  been  an  idler  because  it  suited  me,  because  nothing 
turned  up,  and  because  I  have  enough  to  eat  without  work 
ing  for  my  living.  I  know  how  she  has  felt  about  all  that. 
Well,  she  shall  feel  it  no  longer." 

"You're  taking  on  a  big  order,"  said  the  other  man. 

"The  bigger  the  better,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "And  I  shall 
succeed  in  it  or  never  see  her  again.  I've  sworn  that." 

The  odd  look  of  exaltation  that  Miss  Benham  had  seen 
in  his  face,  the  look  of  knightly  fervor,  came  there  again, 
6  71 


JASON 

and  Hartley  saw  it,  and  knew  that  the  man  was  stirred  by  no 
transient  whim.  Oddly  enough  he  thought,  as  had  the  girl 
earlier  in  the  day,  of  those  elder  Ste.  Maries,  who  had  taken 
sword  and  lance  and  gone  out  into  a  strange  world — a  place 
of  unknown  terrors — afire  for  the  Great  Adventure.  And 
this  was  one  of  their  blood. 

"I'm  afraid  you  don't  realize,"  he  went  on,  "the  difficul 
ties  you've  got  to  face.  Better  men  than  you  have  failed 
over  this  thing,  you  know." 

"A  worse  might  nevertheless  succeed,"  said  Ste.  Marie. 
And  the  other  said: 

"Yes.  Oh  yes.  And  there's  always  luck  to  be  consider 
ed,  of  course.  You  might  stumble  on  some  trace."  He 
threw  away  his  cigarette  and  lighted  another,  and  he 
smoked  it  down  almost  to  the  end  before  he  spoke.  At  last 
he  said:  "I  want  to  tell  you  something.  The  reason  why  I 
want  to  tell  it  comes  a  little  later.  A  few  weeks  before  you 
returned  to  Paris  I  asked  Miss  Benham  to  marry  me." 

Ste.  Marie  looked  up  with  a  quick  sympathy.  "Ah," 
said  he.  "I  have  sometimes  thought — wondered.  I  have 
wondered  if  it  went  as  far  as  that.  Of  course,  I  could  see 
that  you  had  known  her  well,  though  you  seldom  go  there 
nowadays." 

"Yes,"  said  Hartley,  "it  went  as  far  as  that,  but  no  farther. 
She  —well,  she  didn't  care  for  me — not  in  that  way.  So  I 
stiffened  my  back  and  shut  my  mouth,  and  got  used  to  the 
fact  that  what  I'd  hoped  for  was  impossible.  And  now 
comes  the  reason  for  telling  you  what  I've  told.  I  want 
you  to  let  me  help  you  in  what  you're  going  to  do — if  you 
think  you  can,  that  is.  Remember,  I- — cared  for  her,  too. 
I'd  like  to  do  something  for  her.  It  would  never  have  oc 
curred  to  me  to  do  this  until  you  thought  of  it,  but  I  should 

72 


JASON 

like  very  much  to  lend  a  hand — do  some  of  the  work. 
D'you  think  you  could  let  me  in  ?" 

Ste.  Marie  stared  at  him  in  open  astonishment,  and,  for 
an  instant,  something  like  dismay. 

"Yes,  yes!  I  know  what  you're  thinking,"  said  the 
Englishman.  "You'd  hoped  to  do  it  all  yourself.  It's 
your  game.  I  know.  Well,  it's  your  game  even  if  you  let 
me  come  in.  I'm  just  a  helper.  Some  one  to  run  errands. 
Some  one,  perhaps,  to  take  counsel  with  now  and  then. 
Look  at  it  on  the  practical  side.  Two  heads  are  certainly 
better  than  one.  Certainly  I  could  be  of  use  to  you.  And 
besides — well,  I  want  to  do  something  for  her.  I — cared, 
too,  you  see.  D'you  think  you  could  take  me  in  ?" 

It  was  the  man's  love  that  made  his  appeal  irresistible. 
No  one  could  appeal  to  Ste.  Marie  on  that  score  in  vain. 
It  was  true  that  he  had  hoped  to  work  alone — to  win  or 
lose  alone;  to  stand,  in  this  matter,  quite  on  his  own  feet; 
but  he  could  not  deny  the  man  who  had  loved  her  and  lost 
her.  Ste.  Marie  thrust  out  his  hand. 

"You  love  her,  too!"  he  said.  "That  is  enough.  We 
work  together.  I  have  a  possibly  foolish  idea  that  if  we 
can  find  a  certain  man  we  will  learn  something  about 
Arthur  Benham.  I'll  tell  you  about  it." 

But  before  he  could  begin  the  door-bell  jangled, 


VII 

CAPTAIN    STEWART   MAKES   A    KINDLY   OFFER 

STE.  MARIE  scowled. 
"A  caller  would    come    singularly  malapropos   just 
now,"  said  he.     "I've  half  a  mind  not  to  go  to  the  door. 
I  want  to  talk  this  thing  over  with  you." 

"Whoever  it  is,"  objected  Hartley,  "has  been  told  by 
the  concierge  that  you're  at  home.  It  may  not  be  a  caller, 
anyhow.  It  may  be  a  parcel  or  something.  You'd  best  go." 

So  Ste.  Marie  went  out  into  the  little  passage,  blasphem 
ing  fluently  the  while.  The  Englishman  heard  him  open 
the  outer  door  of  the  flat.  He  heard  him  exclaim,  in  great 
surprise: 

"Ah,  Captain  Stewart!  A  great  pleasure!  Come  in! 
Come  in!" 

And  he  permitted  himself  a  little  blaspheming  on  his 
own  account,  for  the  visitor,  as  Ste.  Marie  had  said,  came 
most  malapropos,  and,  besides,  he  disliked  Miss  Benham's 
uncle.  He  heard  the  American  say: 

"I  have  been  hoping  for  some  weeks  to  give  myself  the 
pleasure  of  calling  here,  and  to-day  such  an  excellent  pre 
text  presented  itself  that  I  came  straightaway." 

Hartley  heard  him  emit  his  mewing  little  laugh,  and 
heard  him  say,  with  the  elephantine  archness  affected  by 
certain  dry  and  middle-aged  gentlemen: 

74 


JASON 

"I  come  with  congratulations.  My  niece  has  told  me 
all  about  it.  Lucky  young  man!  Ah — " 

He  reached  the  door  of  the  inner  room  and  saw  Richard 
Hartley  standing  by  the  window,  and  he  began  to  apologize 
profusely,  saying  that  he  had  had  no  idea  that  Ste.  Marie 
was  not  alone.  But  Ste.  Marie  said: 

"It  doesn't  in  the  least  matter.  I  have  no  secrets  from 
Hartley.  Indeed,  I  have  just  been  talking  with  him  about 
this  very  thing." 

But  for  all  that  he  looked  curiously  at  the  elder  man, 
and  it  struck  him  as  very  odd  that  Miss  Benham  should 
have  gone  straight  to  her  uncle  and  told  him  all  this.  It 
did  not  seem  in  the  least  like  her,  especially  as  he  knew 
the  two  were  on  no  terms  of  intimacy.  He  decided  that 
she  must  have  gone  up  to  her  grandfather's  room  to  dis 
cuss  it  with  that  old  gentleman — a  reasonable  enough 
hypothesis — and  that  Captain  Stewart  must  have  come  in 
during  the  discussion.  Quite  evidently  he  had  wasted  no 
time  in  setting  out  upon  his  errand  of  congratulation. 

"Then,"  said  Captain  Stewart,  "if  I  am  to  be  good- 
naturedly  forgiven  for  my  stupidity,  let  me  go  on  and  say, 
in  my  capacity  as  a  member  of  the  family,  that  the  news 
pleased  me  very  much.  I  was  glad  to  hear  it." 

He  shook  Ste.  Marie's  hand,  looking  very  benignant  in 
deed,  and  Ste.  Marie  was  quite  overcome  with  pleasure  and 
gratitude;  it  seemed  to  him  such  a  very  kindly  act  in  the 
elder  man.  He  produced  things  to  smoke  and  drink,  and 
Captan  Stewart  accepted  a  cigarette  and  mixed  himself  a 
rather  stiff  glass  of  absinthe — it  was  between  five  and  six 
o'clock. 

"And  now,"  said  he,  when  he  was  at  ease  in  the  most 
comfortable  of  the  low  cane  chairs,  and  the  glass  of  opales- 

75 


JASON 

cent  liquor  was  properly  curdled  and  set  at  hand — "now, 
having  congratulated  you  and — ah,  welcomed  you,  if  I  may 
put  it  so,  as  a  probable  future  member  of  the  family — I  turn 
to  the  other  feature  of  the  affair." 

"He  had  an  odd  trick  of  lowering  his  head  and  gazing 
benevolently  upon  an  auditor  as  if  over  the  top  of  spec 
tacles.  It  was  one  of  his  elderly  ways.  He  beamed  now 
upon  Ste.  Marie  in  this  manner,  and,  after  a  moment, 
turned  and  beamed  upon  Richard  Hartley,  who  gazed 
stolidly  back  at  him  without  expression. 

"You  have  determined,  I  hear,"  said  he,  "to  join  us  in 
our  search  for  poor  Arthur.  Good!  Good!  I  welcome 
you  there,  also." 

Ste.  Marie  stirred  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "in  a  sense,  yes.  That  is,  I've  deter 
mined  to  devote  myself  to  the  search,  and  Hartley  is  good 
enough  to  offer  to  go  in  with  me;  but  I  think,  if  you  don't 
mind — of  course,  I  know  it's  very  presumptuous  and  doubt 
less  idiotic  of  us — but,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  think  we'll  work 
independently.  You  see — well,  I  can't  quite  put  it  into 
words,  but  it's  our  idea  to  succeed  or  fail  quite  by  our  own 
efforts.  I  dare  say  we  shall  fail,  but  it  won't  be  for  lack 
of  trying." 

Captain  Stewart  looked  disappointed. 

"Oh,  I  think — "  said  he.  "Pardon  me  for  saying  it,  but 
I  think  you're  rather  foolish  to  do  that."  He  waved  an 
apologetic  hand.  "Of  course,  I  comprehend  your  excellent 
motive.  Yes,  as  you  say,  you  want  to  succeed  quite  on 
your  own.  But  look  at  the  practical  side!  You'll  have 
to  go  over  all  the  weary  weeks  of  useless  labor  we  have 
gone  over.  We  could  save  you  that.  We  have  examined 
and  followed  up,  and  at  last  given  over,  a  hundred  clews 

76 


JASON 

that  on  the  surface  looked  quite  possible  of  success.  You'll 
be  doing  that  all  over  again.  In  short,  my  dear  friend, 
you  will  merely  be  following  along  a  couple  of  months  be 
hind  us.  It  seems  to  me  a  pity.  I  sha'n't  like  to  see  you 
wasting  your  time  and  efforts." 

He  dropped  his  eyes  to  the  glass  of  Pernod  which  stood 
beside  him,  and  he  took  it  in  his  hand  and  turned  it  slowly 
and  watched  the  light  gleam  in  strange  pearl  colors  upon 
it.  He  glanced  up  again  with  a  little  smile  which  the  two 
younger  men  found  oddly  pathetic. 

"I  should  like  to  see  you  succeed,"  said  Captain  Stewart. 
"I  like  to  see  youth  and  courage  and  high  hope  succeed." 
He  said:  "I  am  past  the  age  of  romance,  though  I  am  not 
so  very  old  in  years.  Romance  has  passed  me  by,  but — I 
love  it  still.  It  still  stirs  me  surprisingly  when  I  see  it  in 
other  people — young  people  who  are  simple  and  earnest, 
and  who — and  who  are  in  love."  He  laughed  gently,  still 
turning  the  glass  in  his  hand.  "I  am  afraid  you  will  call 
me  a  sentimentalist,"  he  said,  "and  an  elderly  sentimental 
ist  is,  as  a  rule,  a  ridiculous  person.  Ridiculous  or  not, 
though,  I  have  rather  set  my  heart  on  your  success  in  this 
undertaking.  Who  knows  ?  You  may  succeed  where  we 
others  have  failed.  Youth  has  such  a  way  of  charging 
in  and  carrying  all  before  it  by  assault — such  a  way  of 
overleaping  barriers  that  look  unsurmountable  to  older 
eyes!  Youth!  Youth!  Eh,  my  God,"  said  he,  "to  be 
young  again,  just  for  a  little  while!  To  feel  the  blood 
beat  strong  and  eager!  Never  to  be  tired!  Eh,  to  be 
like  one  of  you  youngsters!  You,  Ste.  Marie,  or  you, 
Hartley!  There's  so  little  left  for  people  when  youth  is 
gone!" 

He  bent  his  head  again,  staring  down  upon  the  glass  be- 

77 


JASON 

fore  him,  and  for  a  while  there  was  a  silence  which  neither 
of  the  younger  men  cared  to  break. 

"Don't  refuse  a  helping  hand,"  said  Captain  Stewart, 
looking  up  once  more.  "Don't  be  over-proud.  I  may  be 
able  to  set  you  upon  the  right  path.  Not  that  I  have  any 
thing  definite  to  work  upon  —  I  haven't,  alas!  But  each 
day  new  clews  turn  up.  One  day  we  shall  find  the  real 
one,  and  that  may  be  one  that  I  have  turned  over  to  you 
to  follow  out.  One  never  knows." 

Ste.  Marie  looked  across  at  Richard  Hartley,  but  that 
gentleman  was  blowing  smoke -rings  and  to  all  outward 
appearance  giving  them  his  entire  attention.  He  looked 
back  to  Captain  Stewart,  and  Stewart's  eyes  regarded  him, 
smiling  a  little  wistfully,  he  thought.  Ste.  Marie  scowled 
out  of  the  window  at  the  trees  of  the  Luxembourg  Gar 
dens. 

"I  hardly  know,"  said  he.  -"Of  course,  I  sound  a  bray 
ing  ass  in  hesitating  even  a  moment;  but,  in  a  way,  you 
understand,  I'm  so  anxious  to  do  this  or  to  fail  in  it  quite 
on  my  own.  You're — so  tremendously  kind  about  it  that 
I  don't  know  what  to  say.  I  must  seem  very  ungrateful, 
I  know;  but  I'm  not." 

"No,"  said  the  elder  man,  "you  don't  seem  ungrateful 
at  all.  I  understand  exactly  how  you  feel  about  it,  and  I 
applaud  your  feeling — but  not  your  judgment.  I  am 
afraid  that  for  the  sake  of  a  sentiment  you're  taking  un 
necessary  risks  of  failure." 

For  the  first  time  Richard  Hartley  spoke. 

"I've  an  idea,  you  know,"  said  he,  "that  it's  going  to 
be  a  matter  chiefly  of  luck.  One  day  somebody  will  stumble 
on  the  right  trail,  and  that  might  as  well  be  Ste.  Marie  or 
I  as  your  trained  detectives.  If  you  don't  mind  my  saying 

78  ' 


JASON 

so,  sir — I  don't  want  to  seem  rude — your  trained  detectives 
do  not  seem  to  accomplish  much  in  two  months,  do  they  ?" 

Captain  Stewart  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  younger  man. 

"No,"  he  said,  at  last.  "I  am  sorry  to  say  they  don't 
seem  to  have  accomplished  much — except  to  prove  that 
there  are  a  great  many  places  poor  Arthur  has  not  been 
to  and  a  great  many  people  who  have  not  seen  him.  After 
all,  that  is  something — the  elimination  of  ground  that  need 
not  be  worked  over  again."  He  set  down  the  glass  from 
which  he  had  been  drinking.  "I  cannot  agree  with  your 
theory,"  he  said.  "I  cannot  agree  that  such  work  as  this 
is  best  left  to  an  accidental  solution.  Accidents  are  too 
rare.  We  have  tried  to  go  at  it  in  as  scientific  a  way  as 
could  be  managed — by  covering  large  areas  of  territory,  by 
keeping  the  police  everywhere  on  the  alert,  by  watching 
the  boy's  old  friends  and  searching  his  favorite  haunts. 
Personally,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  he  managed  to  slip 
away  to  America  very  early  in  the  course  of  events,  before 
we  began  to  search  for  him,  and,  of  course,  I  am  having 
a  careful  watch  kept  there  as  well  as  here.  But  no  trace 
has  appeared  as  yet — nothing  at  all  trustworthy.  Mean 
while,  I  continue  to  hope  and  to  work,  but  I  grow  a  little 
discouraged.  In  any  case,  though,  we  shall  hear  of  him  in 
three  months  more  if  he  is  alive." 

"Why  three  months?"  asked  Ste.  Marie.  "What  do 
you  mean  by  that  ?" 

"In  three  months,"  said  Captain  Stewart,  "Arthur  will 
be  of  age,  and  he  can  demand  the  money  left  him  by  his 
father.  If  he  is  alive  he  will  turn  up  for  that.  I  have 
thought,  from  the  first,  that  he  is  merely  hiding  somewhere 
until  this  time  should  be  past.  He — you  must  know  that 
he  went  away  very  angry,  after  a  quarrel  with  his  grand- 

79 


JASON 

father?  My  father  is  not  a  patient  man.  He  may  have 
been  very  harsh  with  the  boy." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Hartley;  "but  no  boy,  however  young  or 
angry,  would  be  foolish  enough  to  risk  an  absolute  break 
with  the  man  who  is  going  to  leave  him  a  large  fortune. 
Young  Benham  must  know  that  his  grandfather  would 
never  forgive  him  for  staying  away  all  this  time  if  he  stayed 
away  of  his  own  accord.  He  must  know  that  he'd  be  tak 
ing  tremendous  risks  of  being  cut  off  altogether." 

"And  besides,"  added  Ste.  Marie,  "it  is  quite  possible 
that  your  father,  sir,  may  die  at  any  time — any  hour.  And 
he's  very  angry  at  his  grandson.  He  may  have  cut  him 
off  already." 

Captain  Stewart's  eyes  sharpened  suddenly,  but  he 
dropped  them  to  the  glass  in  his  hand. 

"Have  you  any  reason  for  thinking  that  ?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "I  beg  your  pardon.  I  shouldn't 
have  said  it.  That  is  a  matter  which  concerns  your  family 
alone.  I  forgot  myself.  The  possibility  occurred  to  me 
suddenly  for  the  first  time." 

But  the  elder  man  looked  up  at  him  with  a  smile. 

"Pray  don't  apologize,"  said  he.  "Surely  we  three  can 
speak  frankly  together!  And,  frankly,  I  know  nothing  of 
my  father's  will.  But  I  don't  think  he  would  cut  poor 
Arthur  off,  though  he  is,  of  course,  very  angry  about  the 
boy's  leaving  in  the  manner  he  did.  No,  I  am  sure  he 
wouldn't  cut  him  off.  He  was  fond  of  the  lad,  very  fond 
— as  we  all  were." 

Captain  Stewart  glanced  at  his  watch  and  rose  with  a 
little  sigh. 

"I  must  be  off,"  said  he.  "I  have  to  dine  out  this 
evening,  and  I  must  get  home  to  change.  There  is  a  cab- 
So 


JASON 

stand  near  you  ?"     He  looked  out  of  the  window.     "Ah, 
yes!     Just  at  the  corner  of  the  Gardens." 

He  turned  about  to  Ste.  Marie,  and  held  out  his  hand 
with  a  smile.  He  said: 

"You  refuse  to  join  forces  with  us,  then?  Well,  I'm 
sorry.  But,  for  all  that,  I  wish  you  luck.  Go  your  own 
way,  and  I  hope  you'll  succeed.  I  honestly  hope  that, 
even  though  your  success  may  show  me  up  for  an  incom 
petent  bungler." 

He  gave  a  little  kindly  laugh,  and  Ste.  Marie  tried  to 
protest. 

"Still,"  said  the  elder  man,  "don't  throw  me  over  alto 
gether.  If  I  can  help  you  in  any  way,  little  or  big,  let  me 
know.  If  I  can  give  you  any  hints,  any  advice,  anything 
at  all,  I  want  to  do  it.  And  if  you  happen  upon  what  seems 
to  be  a  promising  clew  come  and  talk  it  over  with  me.  Oh, 
don't  be  afraid!  I'll  leave  it  to  you  to  work  out.  I  sha'n't 
spoil  your  game." 

"Ah,  now,  that's  very  good  of  you,"  said  Ste.  Marie. 
"Only  you  make  me  seem  more  than  ever  an  ungrateful 
fool.  Thanks,  I  will  come  to  you  with  my  troubles  if  I 
may.  I  have  a  foolish  idea  that  I  want  to  follow  out  a 
little  first,  but  doubtless  I  shall  be  running  to  you  soon  for 
information." 

The  elder  man's  eyes  sharpened  again  with  keen  in 
terest. 

"An  idea!"  he  said,  quickly.  "You  have  an  idea? 
What —  May  I  ask  what  sort  of  an  idea  ?" 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,"  declared  Ste.  Marie.  "You  have 
already  laughed  at  it.  I  just  want  to  find  that  man  O'Hara, 
that's  all.  I've  a  feeling  that  I  should  learn  something 
from  him." 

Si 


JASON 

"Ah!"  said  Captain  Stewart,  slowly.  "Yes,  the  man 
O'Hara.  There's  nothing  in  that,  I'm  afraid.  I've  made 
inquiries  about  O'Hara.  It  seems  he  left  Paris  six  months 
ago,  saying  he  was  off  for  America.  An  old  friend  of  his 
told  me  that.  So  you  must  have  been  mistaken  when  you 
thought  you  saw  him  in  the  Champs-Elysees ;  and  he  couldn't 
very  well  have  had  anything  to  do  with  poor  Arthur.  I'm 
afraid  that  idea  is  hardly  worth  following  up." 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "I  seem  to  start  badly, 
don't  I  ?  Ah,  well,  I'll  have  to  come  to  you  all  the  sooner, 
then." 

"You'll  be  welcome,"  promised  Captain  Stewart.  "Good 
bye  to  you!  Good-day,  Hartley.  Come  and  see  me,  both 
of  you.  You  know  where  I  live." 

He  took  his  leave  then,  and  Hartley,  standing  beside  the 
window,  watched  him  turn  down  the  street,  and  at  the 
corner  get  into  one  of  the  fiacres  there  and  drive  away. 

Ste.  Marie  laughed  aloud. 

"There's  the  second  time,"  said  he,  "that  I've  had  him 
about  O'Hara.  If  he  is  as  careless  as  that  about  every 
thing,  I  don't  wonder  he  hasn't  found  Arthur  Benham. 
O'Hara  disappeared  from  Paris — publicly,  that  is — at 
about  the  time  young  Benham  disappeared.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  he  remains,  or  at  least  for  a  time  remained,  in  the 
city  without  letting  his  friends  know,  because  I  made  no 
mistake  about  seeing  him  in  the  Champs-Elysees.  All  that 
looks  to  me  suspicious  enough  to  be  worth  investigation. 
Of  course,"  he  admitted,  doubtfully — "of  course,  I'm  no 
detective;  but  that's  how  it  looks  to  me." 

"I  don't  believe  Stewart  is  any  detective,  either,"  said 
Richard  Hartley.  "He's  altogether  too  cocksure.  That 
sort  of  man  would  rather  die  than  admit  he  is  wrong  about 

82 


JASON 

anything.  He's  a  good  old  chap,  though,  isn't  he?  I 
liked  him  to-day  better  than  ever  before.  I  thought  he 
was  rather  pathetic  when  he  went  on  about  his  age." 

"He  has  a  good  heart,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "Very  few 
men  under  the  circumstances  would  come  here  and  be  as 
decent  as  he  was.  Most  men  would  have  thought  I  was 
a  presumptuous  ass,  and  would  have  behaved  accordingly." 

Ste.  Marie  took  a  turn  about  the  room,  and  his  face  be 
gan  to  light  up  with  its  new  excitement  and  exaltation. 

"And  to-morrow!"  he  cried — "to-morrow  we  begin!  To 
morrow  we  set  out  into  the  world  and  the  Adventure  is  on 
foot!  God  send  it  success!" 

He  laughed  across  at  the  other  man;  but  it  was  a  laugh 
of  eagerness,  not  of  mirth. 

"I  feel,"  said  he,  "like  Jason.  I  feel  as  if  we  were  to 
set  sail  to-morrow  for  Colchis  and  the  Golden  Fleece." 

"Y-e-s,"  said  the  other  man,  a  little  dryly — "yes,  per 
haps.  I  don't  want  to  seem  critical,  but  isn't  your  figure 
somewhat  ill  chosen  ?" 

"'Ill  chosen'?"  cried  Ste.  Marie.  "What  d'you  mean? 
Why  ill  chosen  ?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  Medea,"  said  Richard  Hartley. 


VIII 

JASON  MEETS  WITH  A  MISADVENTURE  AND  DREAMS  A  DREAM 

SO  on  the  next  day  these  two  rode  forth  upon  their 
quest,  and  no  quest  was  ever  undertaken  with  a  stouter 
courage  or  with  a  grimmer  determination  to  succeed.  To 
put  it  fancifully,  they  burned  their  tower  behind  them,  for  to 
one  of  them,  at  least — to  him  who  led — there  was  no  going 
back. 

But,  after  all,  they  set  forth  under  a  cloud,  and  Ste.  Marie 
took  a  heavy  heart  with  him.  On  the  evening  before  an 
odd  and  painful  incident  had  befallen — a  singularly  un 
fortunate  incident. 

It  chanced  that  neither  of  the  two  men  had  a  dinner 
engagement  that  evening,  and  so,  after  their  old  habit,  they 
dined  together.  There  was  some  wrangling  over  where 
they  should  go,  Hartley  insisting  upon  Armenonville  or  the 
Madrid,  in  the  Bois,  Ste.  Marie  objecting  that  these  would 
be  full  of  tourists  so  late  in  June,  and  urging  the  claims  of 
some  quiet  place  in  the  Quarter,  where  they  could  talk 
instead  of  listening  perforce  to  loud  music.  In  the  end, 
for  no  particular  reason,  they  compromised  on  the  little 
Spanish  restaurant  in  the  rue  Helder.  They  went  there 
about  eight  o'clock,  without  dressing,  for  it  is  a  very  quiet 
place  which  the  world  does  not  visit,  and  they  had  a  sopa 
de  yerbas,  and  some  langostinos,  which  are  shrimps,  and  a 

84 


JASON 

heavenly  arroz,  with  fowl  in  it,  and  many  tender,  succulent 
strips  of  red  pepper.  They  had  a  salad  made  out  of  a  little 
of  everything  that  grows  green,  with  the  true  Spanish  oil, 
which  has  a  tang  and  a  bouquet  unappreciated  by  the 
Philistine;  and  then  they  had  a  strange  pastry  and  some 
cheese  and  green  almonds.  And  to  make  then  glad,  they 
drank  a  bottle  of  old  red  Valdepenas,  and  afterward  a  glass 
each  of  a  special  Manzanilla,  upon  which  the  restaurant 
very  justly  prides  itself. 

It  was  a  simple  dinner  and  a  little  stodgy  for  that  time 
of  the  year,  but  the  two  men  were  hungry  and  sat  at  table, 
almost  alone  in  the  upper  room,  for  a  long  time,  saying  how 
good  everything  was,  and  from  time  to  time  despatching  the 
saturnine  waiter,  a  Madrileno,  for  more  peppers.  When 
at  last  they  came  out  into  the  narrow  street,  and  thence  to 
the  thronged  Boulevard  des  Italiens,  it  was  nearly  eleven 
o'clock.  They  stood  for  a  little  time  in  the  shelter  of  a 
kiosk,  looking  down  the  boulevard  to  where  the  Place  de 
1'Opera  opened  wide  and  the  lights  of  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix 
shone  garish  in  the  night.  And  Ste.  Marie  said: 

"There's  a  street  fete  in  Montmartre.  We  might  drive 
home  that  way." 

"An  excellent  idea,"  said  the  other  man.  "The  fact  that 
Montmartre  lies  in  an  opposite  direction  from  home  makes 
the  plan  all  the  better.  And  after  that  we  might  drive  home 
through  the  Bois.  That's  much  farther  in  the  wrong 
direction.  Lead  on!" 

So  they  sprang  into  a  waiting  fiacre,  and  were  dragged  up 
the  steep,  stone-paved  hill  to  the  heights,  where  La  Boheme 
still  reigns,  though  the  glory  of  Moulin  Rouge  has  departed 
and  the  trail  of  the  tourist  is  over  all.  They  found  Mont 
martre  very  much  en  fete.  In  the  Place  Blanche  were  two 

85 


JASON 

of  the  enormous  and  brilliantly  lighted  merry-go-rounds, 
which  only  Paris  knows — one  furnished  with  stolid  cattle, 
theatrical-looking  horses,  and  Russian  sleighs;  the  other 
with  the  ever-popular  galloping  pigs.  When  these  dread 
ful  machines  were  in  rotation,  mechanical  organs,  concealed 
somewhere  in  their  bowels,  emitted  hideous  brays  and 
shrieks  which  mingled  with  the  shrieks  of  the  ladies  mount 
ed  upon  the  galloping  pigs,  and  together  insulted  a  peaceful 
sky. 

The  square  was  filled  with  that  extremely  heterogeneous 
throng  which  the  Parisian  street  fete  gathers  together,  but 
it  was,  for  the  most  part,  a  well-dressed  throng,  largely 
recruited  from  the  boulevards,  and  it  was  quite  determined 
to  have  a  very  good  time  in  the  cheerful,  harmless  Latin 
fashion.  The  two  men  got  down  from  their  fiacre  and 
elbowed  a  way  through  the  good-natured  crowd  to  a  place 
near  the  more  popular  of  the  merry-go-rounds.  The 
machine  was  in  rotation.  Its  garish  lights  shone  and 
glittered,  its  hidden  mechanical  organ  blared  a  German 
waltz  tune,  the  huge,  pink-varnished  pigs  galloped  gravely 
up  and  down  as  the  platform  upon  which  they  were  mount 
ed  whirled  round  and  round.  A  little  group  of  American 
trippers,  sight-seeing  with  a  guide,  stood  near  by,  and  one 
of  the  group,  a  pretty  girl  with  red  hair,  demanded  plain 
tively  of  the  friend  upon  whose  arm  she  hung:  "Do  you 
think  momma  would  be  shocked  if  we  took  a  ride  ? 
Wouldn't  I  love  to!" 

Hartley  turned,  laughing,  from  this  distressed  maiden  to 
Ste.  Marie.  He  was  wondering,  with  mild  amusement, 
why  anybody  should  wish  to  do  such  a  foolish  thing;  but 
Ste.  Marie's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  galloping  pigs,  and 
the  eyes  shone  with  a  wistful  excitement.  To  tell  the  truth, 

86 


JASON 

it  was  impossible  for  him  to  look  on  at  any  form  of  active 
amusement  without  thirsting  to  join  it.  A  joyous  and  care 
free  lady  in  a  blue  hat,  who  was  mounted  astride  upon  one 
of  the  pigs,  hurled  a  paper  serpentine  at  him  and  shrieked 
with  delight  when  it  knocked  his  hat  off. 

"That's  the  second  time  she  has  hit  me  with  one  of  those 
things,"  he  said,  groping  about  his  feet  for  the  hat.  "Here, 
stop  that  boy  with  the  basket!" 

A  vender  of  the  little  rolls  of  paper  ribbon  was  shouting 
his  wares  through  the  crowd.  Ste.  Marie  filled  his  pockets 
with  the  things,  and  when  the  lady  with  the  blue  hat  came 
round,  on  the  next  turn,  lassoed  her  neatly  about  the  neck 
and  held  the  end  of  the  ribbon  till  it  broke.  Then  he  caught 
a  fat  gentleman,  who  was  holding  himself  on  by  his  steed's 
neck,  in  the  ear,  and  the  red-haired  American  girl  laughed 
aloud. 

"When  the  thing  stops,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  "I'm  going 
to  take  a  ride — just  one  ride.  I  haven't  ridden  a  pig  for 
many  years." 

Hartley  jeered  at  him,  calling  him  an  infant,  but  Ste. 
Marie  bought  more  serpentines,  and  when  the  platform 
came  to  a  stop  clambered  up  to  it  and  mounted  the  only 
unoccupied  pig  he  could  find.  His  friend  still  scoffed  at 
him  and  called  him  names,  but  Ste.  Marie  tucked  his  long 
legs  round  the  pig's  neck  and  smiled  back,  and  presently 
the  machine  began  again  to  revolve. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  revolution  Hartley  gave  a  shout  of 
delight,  for  he  saw  that  the  lady  with  the  blue  hat  had 
left  her  mount  and  was  making  her  way  along  the  plat 
form  toward  where  Ste.  Marie  sat  hurling  serpentines  in 
the  face  of  the  world.  By  the  next  time  round  she  had 
come  to  where  he  was,  mounted  astride  behind  him,  and 
7  87 


JASON 

was  holding  herself  with  one  very  shapely  arm  round  his 
neck,  while  with  the  other  she  rifled  his  pockets  for  ammuni 
tion.  Ste.  Marie  grinned,  and  the  public,  loud  in  its  ac 
claims,  began  to  pelt  the  two  with  serpentines  until  they 
were  hung  with  many-colored  ribbons  like  a  Christmas- 
tree.  Even  Richard  Hartley  was  so  far  moved  out  of  the 
self-consciousness  with  which  his  race  is  cursed  as  to  buy 
a  handful  of  the  common  missiles,  and  the  lady  in  the  blue 
hat  returned  his  attention  with  skill  and  despatch. 

But  as  the  machine  began  to  slacken  its  pace,  and  the 
hideous  wail  and  blare  of  the  concealed  organ  died  merci 
fully  down,  Hartley  saw  that  his  friend's  manner  had  all 
at  once  altered,  that  he  sat  leaning  forward  away  from  the 
enthusiastic  lady  with  the  blue  hat,  and  that  the  paper 
serpentines  had  dropped  from  his  hands.  Hartley  thought 
that  the  rapid  motion  must  have  made  him  a  little  giddy, 
but  presently,  before  the  merry-go-round  had  quite  stopped, 
he  saw  the  man  leap  down  and  hurry  toward  him  through 
the  crowd.  Ste.  Marie's  face  was  grave  and  pale.  He 
caught  Hartley's  arm  in  his  hand  and  turned  him  round, 
crying,  in  a  low  voice: 

"Come  out  of  this  as  quickly  as  you  can!  No,  in  the 
other  direction.  I  want  to  get  away  at  once!" 

"What's  the  matter?"  Hartley  demanded.  "Lady  in 
the  blue  hat  too  friendly  ?  Well,  if  you're  going  to  play 
this  kind  of  game  you  might  as  well  play  it." 

"Helen  Benham  was  down  there  in  the  crowd,"  said 
Ste.  Marie.  "On  the  opposite  side  from  you.  She  was 
with  a  party  of  people  who  got  out  of  two  motor-cars  to 
look  on.  They  were  in  evening  things,  so  they  had  come 
from  dinner  somewhere,  I  suppose.  She  saw  me." 

"The  devil!"  said  Hartley,  under  his  breath.     Then  he 


JASON 

gave  a  shout  of  laughter,  demanding:  "Well,  what  of  it? 
You  weren't  committing  any  crime,  were  you  ?  There's 
no  harm  in  riding  a  silly  pig  in  a  silly  merry-go-round. 
Everybody  does  it  in  these  fete  things."  But  even  as  he 
spoke  he  knew  how  extremely  unfortunate  the  meeting  was, 
and  the  laughter  went  out  of  his  voice. 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  "she  won't  see  the  humor 
of  it.  Good  God,  what  a  thing  to  happen!  Ton  know 
well  enough  what  she'll  think  of  me.  At  five  o'clock  this 
afternoon,"  he  said,  bitterly,  "I  left  her  with  a  great  many 
fine,  high-sounding  words  about  the  quest  I  was  to  give 
my  days  and  nights  to — for  her  sake.  I  went  away  from 
her  like  a — knight  going  into  battle — consecrated.  I  tell 
you,  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes  when  I  went.  And  now — 
now,  at  midnight — she  sees  me  riding  a  galloping  pig  in  a 
street  fete  with  a  girl  from  the  boulevards  sitting  on  the 
pig  with  me  and  holding  me  round  the  neck  before  a 
thousand  people.  What  will  she  think  of  me  ?  What  but 
one  thing  can  she  possibly  think  ?  Oh,  I  know  well  enough ! 
I  saw  her  face  before  she  turned  away.  And-,"  he  cried, 
"I  can't  even  go  to  her  and  explain — if  there's  anything  to 
explain,  and  I  suppose  there  is  not.  I  can't  even  go  to 
her.  I've  sworn  not  to  see  her." 

"Oh,  I'll  do  that,"  said  the  other  man.  "I'll  explain 
it  to  her,  if  any  explanation's  necessary.  I  think  you'll 
find  that  she  will  laugh  at  it." 

But  Ste.  Marie  shook  his  head. 

"No,  she  won't,"  said  he. 

And  Hartley  could  say  no  more;  for  he  knew  Miss  Ben- 
ham,  and  he  was  very  much  afraid  that  she  would  not 
laugh. 

They  found  a  fiacre  at  the  side  of  the  square  and  drove 


JASON 

home  at  once.  They  were  almost  entirely  silent  all  the 
long  way,  for  Ste.  Marie  was  buried  in  gloom,  and  the 
Englishman,  after  trying  once  or  twice  to  cheer  him  up, 
realized  that  he  was  best  left  to  himself  just  then,  and  so 
held  his  tongue.  But  in  the  rue  d'Assas,  as  Ste.  Marie  was 
getting  down — Hartley  kept  the  fiacre  to  go  on  to  his  rooms 
in  the  Avenue  de  1'Observatoire — he  made  a  last  attempt 
to  lighten  the  man's  depression.  He  said: 

"Don't  you  be  a  silly  ass  about  this!  You're  making 
much  too  much  of  it,  you  know.  I'll  go  to  her  to-morrow 
or  next  day  and  explain,  and  she'll  laugh — if  she  hasn't 
already  done  so.  You  know,"  he  said,  almost  believing 
it  himself,  "you  are  paying  her  a  dashed  poor  compliment 
in  thinking  she's  so  dull  as  to  misunderstand  a  little  thing 
of  this  kind.  Yes,  by  Jove,  you  are!" 

Ste.  Marie  looked  up  at  him,  and  his  face,  in  the  light  of 
the  cab  lamp,  showed  a  first  faint  gleam  of  hope. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  he  demanded.  "Do  you  really 
think  that  ?  Maybe  I  am.  But —  Oh,  Lord,  who  would 
understand -such  an  idiocy?  Sacred  imbecile  that  I  am! 
Why  was  I  ever  born  ?  I  ask  you." 

He  turned  abruptly,  and  began  to  ring  at  the  door,  cast 
ing  a  brief  "Good-night"  over  his  shoulder.  And  after  a 
moment  Hartley  gave  it  up  and  drove  away. 

Above,  in  the  long,  shallow  front  room  of  his  flat,  with 
the  three  windows  overlooking  the  Gardens,  Ste.  Marie 
made  lights,  and  after  much  rummaging  unearthed  a  box 
of  cigarettes  of  a  peculiarly  delectable  flavor  which  had 
been  sent  him  by  a  friend  in  the  Khedivial  household.  He 
allowed  himself  one  or  two  of  them  now  and  then,  usu 
ally  in  sorrowful  moments,  as  an  especial  treat;  and  this 
seemed  to  him  to  be  the  moment  for  smoking  all  that  were 

90 


JASON 

left.  Surely  his  need  had  never  been  greater.  In  England 
he  had,  of  course,  learned  to  smoke  a  pipe,  but  pipe-smok 
ing  always  remained  with  him  a  species  of  accomplishment; 
it  never  brought  him  the  deep  and  ruminative  peace  with 
which  it  enfolds  the  Anglo-Saxon  heart.  The  "vieux 
Jacob"  of  old-fashioned  Parisian  Bohemia  inspired  in  him 
unconcealed  horror,  of  cigars  he  was  suspicious  because, 
he  said,  most  of  the  unpleasant  people  he  knew  smoked 
cigars,  so  he  soothed  his  soul  with  cigarettes,  and  he  was 
usually  to  be  found  with  one  between  his  ringers. 

He  lighted  one  of  the  precious  Egyptians,  and  after  a 
first  ecstatic  inhalation  went  across  to  one  of  the  long  win 
dows,  which  was  open,  and  stood  there  with  his  back  to  the 
room,  his  face  to  the  peaceful,  fragrant  night.  A  sudden 
recollection  came  to  him  of  that  other  night  a  month  before 
when  he  had  stood  on  the  Pont  des  Invalides  with  his  eyes 
upon  the  stars,  his  feet  upon  the  ladder  thereunto.  His 
heart  gave  a  sudden  exultant  leap  within  him  when  he 
thought  how  far  and  high  he  had  climbed,  but  after  the 
leap  it  shivered  and  stood  still  when  this  evening's  mis 
adventure  came  before  him. 

Would  she  ever  understand  ?  He  had  no  fear  that  Hart 
ley  would  not  do  his  best  with  her.  Hartley  was  as  honest 
and  as  faithful  as  ever  a  friend  was  in  this  world.  He 
would  do  his  best.  But  even  then —  It  was  the  girl's  in 
flexible  nature  that  made  the  matter  so  dangerous.  He 
knew  that  she  was  inflexible,  and  he  took  a  curious  pride 
in  it.  He  admired  it.  So  must  have  been  those  calm- 
eyed,  ancient  ladies  for  whom  other  Ste.  Maries  went  out 
to  do  battle.  It  was  well-nigh  impossible  to  imagine  them 
lowering  their  eyes  to  silly  revelry.  They  could  not  stoop 
to  such  as  that.  It  was  beneath  their  high  dignity.  And 

91 


JASON 

it  was  beneath  hers  also.  As  for  himself,  he  was  a  thing 
of  patches.  Here  a  patch  of  exalted  chivalry— a  noble 
patch — there  a  patch  of  bourgeois,  childlike  love  of  fun; 
here  a  patch  of  melancholic  asceticism,  there  one  of  some 
thing  quite  the  reverse.  A  hopeless  patchwork  he  was. 
Must  she  not  shrink  from  him  when  she  knew  ?  He  could 
not  quite  imagine  her  understanding  the  wholly  trivial  and 
meaningless  impulse  that  had  prompted  him  to  ride  a 
galloping  pig  and  cast  paper  serpentines  at  the  assembled 
world. 

Apart  from  her  view  of  the  affair,  he  felt  no  shame  in  it. 
The  moment  of  childish  gayety  had  been  but  a  passing 
mood.  It  had  in  no  way  slackened  his  tense  enthusiasm, 
dulled  the  keenness  of  his  spirit,  lowered  his  high  flight. 
He  knew  that  well  enough.  But  he  wondered  if  she  would 
understand,  and  he  could  not  believe  it  possible.  The 
mood  of  exaltation  in  which  they  had  parted  that  after 
noon  came  to  him,  and  then  the  sight  of  her  shocked  face 
as  he  had  seen  it  in  the  laughing  crowd  in  the  Place  Blanche. 

"What  must  she  think  of  me  ?"  he  cried,  aloud.  "What 
must  she  think  of  me  ?" 

So,  for  an  hour  or  more,  he  stood  in  the  open  window 
staring  into  the  fragrant  night,  or  tramped  up  and  down 
the  long  room,  his  hands  behind  his  back,  kicking  out  of 
his  way  the  chairs  and  things  which  impeded  him,  tort 
uring  himself  with  fears  and  regrets  and  fancies,  until  at 
last,  in  a  calmer  moment,  he  realized  that  he  was  working 
himself  up  into  an  absurd  state  of  nerves  over  something 
which  was  done  and  could  not  now  be  helped.  The  man 
had  an  odd  streak  of  fatalism  in  his  nature — that  will  have 
come  of  his  Southern  blood — and  it  came  to  him  now  in  his 
need.  For  the  work  upon  which  he  was  to  enter  with  the 

92 


JASON 

morrow  he  had  need  of  clear  wits,  not  scattered  ones;  a 
calm  judgment,  not  disordered  nerves.  So  he  took  him 
self  in  hand,  and  it  would  have  been  amazing  to  any  one 
unfamiliar  with  the  abrupt  changes  of  the  Latin  tempera 
ment  to  see  how  suddenly  Ste.  Marie  became  quiet  and 
cool  and  master  of  himself. 

"It  is  done,"  he  said,  with  a  little  shrug,  and  if  his  face 
was  for  a  moment  bitter  it  quickly  enough  became  im 
passive.  "It  is  done,  and  it  cannot  be  undone — unless 
Hartley  can  undo  it.  And  now,  revenons  a  nos  moutons! 
Or,  at  least,"  said  he,  looking  at  his  watch — and  it  was 
between  one  and  two — "at  least,  to  our  beds!" 

So  he  went  to  bed,  and,  so  well  had  he  recovered  from 
his  fit  of  excitement,  he  fell  asleep  almost  at  once.  But 
for  all  that  the  jangled  nerves  had  their  revenge.  He  who 
commonly  slept  like  the  dead,  without  the  slightest  dis 
turbance,  dreamed  a  strange  dream.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  he  stood  spent  and  weary  in  a  twilight  place — a  waste 
place  at  the  foot  of  a  high  hill.  At  the  top  of  the  hill  She 
sat  upon  a  sort  of  throne,  golden  in  a  beam  of  light  from 
heaven — serene,  very  beautiful,  the  end  and  crown  of  his 
weary  labors.  His  feet  were  set  to  the  ascent  of  the  height 
whereon  she  waited,  but  he  was  withheld.  From  the 
shadows  at  the  hill's  foot  a  voice  called  to  him  in  distress, 
anguish  of  spirit — a  voice  he  knew;  but  he  could  not  say 
whose  voice.  It  besought  him  out  of  utter  need,  and  he 
could  not  turn  away  from  it. 

Then  from  those  shadows  eyes  looked  upon  him,  very 
great  and  dark  eyes,  and  they  besought  him,  too;  he  did 
not  know  what  they  asked,  but  they  called  to  him  like  the 
low  voice,  and  he  could  not  turn  away. 

He  looked  to  the  far  height,  and  with  all  his  power  he 

93 


JASON 

strove  to  set  his  feet  toward  it — the  goal  of  long  labor  and 
desire;  but  the  eyes  and  the  piteous  voice  held  him  motion 
less — for  they  needed  him. 

From  this  anguish  he  awoke  trembling.  And  after  a 
long  time,  when  he  was  composed,  he  fell  asleep  once  more, 
and  once  more  he  dreamed  the  dream. 

So  morning  found  him  pallid  and  unrefreshed.  But  by 
daylight  he  knew  whose  eyes  had  besought  him,  and  he 
wondered  and  was  a  little  afraid. 


IX 


JASON    GOES    UPON    A    JOURNEY,    AND    RICHARD    HARTLEY 
PLEADS   FOR   HIM 

IT  may  as  well  be  admitted  at  the  outset  that  neither 
Ste.  Marie  nor  Richard  Hartley  proved  themselves  to  be 
geniuses,  hitherto  undeveloped,  in  the  detective  science. 
They  entered  upon  their  self-appointed  task  with  a  fine 
fervor,  but,  as  Miss  Benham  had  suggested,  with  no  other 
qualifications  in  particular.  Ste.  Marie  had  a  theory  that, 
when  engaged  in  work  of  this  nature,  you  went  into  ques 
tionable  parts  of  the  city,  ate  and  drank  cheek  by  jowl  with 
questionable  people — if  possible,  got  them  drunk  while  you 
remained  sober  (difficult  feat),  and  sooner  or  later  they  said 
things  which  put  you  on  the  right  road  to  your  goal,  or  else 
confessed  to  you  that  they  themselves  had  committed  the 
particular  crime  in  which  you  were  interested.  He  argued 
that  this  was  the  way  it  happened  in  books,  and  that  surely 
people  didn't  write  books  about  things  of  which  they  were 
ignorant. 

Hartley,  on  the  other  hand,  preferred  the  newer,  or  scien 
tific,  methods.  You  sat  at  home  with  a  pipe  and  a  whiskey- 
and-water — if  possible,  in  a  long  dressing-gown  with  a  cord 
round  its  middle.  You  reviewed  all  the  known  facts  of  the 
case,  and  you  did  mathematics  about  them  with  Xs  and  Ys 
and  many  other  symbols,  and  in  the  end,  by  a  system  of 

95 


JASON 

elimination,  you  proved  that  a  certain  thing  must  infallibly 
be  true.  The  chief  difficulty  for  him  in  this  was,  he  said, 
that  he  had  been  at  Oxford  instead  of  at  Cambridge,  and 
so  the  mathematics  were  rather  beyond  him. 

In  practice,  however,  they  combined  the  two  methods, 
which  was  doubtless  as  well  as  if  they  hadn't,  because  for 
some  time  they  accomplished  nothing  whatever,  and  so 
neither  one  was  able  to  sneer  at  the  other's  stupidity. 

This  is  not  to  say  that  they  found  nothing  in  the  way  of 
clews.  They  found  an  embarrassment  of  them,  and  for 
some  days  went  about  in  a  fever  of  excitement  over  these; 
but  the  fever  cooled  when  clew  after  clew  turned  out  to  be 
misleading.  Of  course,  Ste.  Marie's  first  efforts  were 
directed  toward  tracing  the  movements  of  the  Irishman 
O'Hara,  but  the  efforts  were  altogether  unavailing.  The 
man  seemed  to  have  disappeared  as  noiselessly  and  com 
pletely  as  had  young  Arthur  Benham  himself.  He  was  un 
able  even  to  settle  with  any  definiteness  the  time  of  the  man's 
departure  from  Paris.  Some  of  O'Hara 's  old  acquaint 
ances  maintained  that  they  had  seen  the  last  of  him  two 
months  before,  but  a  shifty-eyed  person  in  rather  cheaply 
smart  clothes  came  up  to  Ste.  Marie  one  evening  in  Maxim's 
and  said  he  had  heard  that  Ste.  Marie  was  making  inquiries 
about  M.  O'Hara.  Ste.  Marie  said  he  was,  and  that  it  was 
an  affair  of  money;  whereupon  the  cheaply  smart  individual 
declared  that  M.  O'Hara  had  left  Paris  six  months  before 
to  go  to  the  United  States  of  America,  and  that  he  had  had 
a  picture  postal -card  from  him,  some  weeks  since,  from 
New  York.  The  informant  accepted  an  expensive  cigar 
and  a  Dubonnet  by  way  of  reward,  but  presently  departed 
into  the  night,  and  Ste.  Marie  was  left  in  some  discourage 
ment,  his  theory  badly  damaged. 

96 


JASON 

He  spoke  of  this  encounter  to  Richard  Hartley,  who  came 
on  later  to  join  him,  and  Hartley,  after  an  interval  of  silence 
and  smoke,  said:  "That  was  a  lie!  The  man  lied!" 

"Name  of  a  dog,  why?"  demanded  Ste.  Marie;  but  the 
Englishman  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "But  I  believe  it  was  a  lie. 
The  man  came  to  you — sought  you  out  to  tell  his  story,  didn't 
he  ?  And  all  the  others  have  given  a  different  date  ?  Well, 
there  you  are!  For  some  reason,  this  man  or  some  one 
behind  him — O'Hara  himself,  probably — wants  you  to 
believe  that  O'Hara  is  in  America.  I  dare  say  he's  in  Paris 
all  the  while." 

"I  hope  you're  right,"  said  the  other.  "And  I  mean  to 
make  sure,  too.  It  certainly  was  odd,  this  strange  being 
hunting  me  out  to  tell  me  that.  I  wonder,  by-the-way,  how 
he  knew  I'd  been  making  inquiries  about  O'Hara.  I've 
questioned  only  two  or  three  people,  and  then  in  the  most 
casual  way.  Yes,  it's  odd." 

It  was  about  a  week  after  this — a  fruitless  week,  full  of 
the  alternate  brightness  of  hope  and  the  gloom  of  dis 
appointment — that  he  met  Captain  Stewart,  to  whom  he 
had  been,  more  than  once,  on  the  point  of  appealing.  He 
happened  upon  him  quite  by  chance  one  morning  in  the 
rue  Royale.  Captain  Stewart  was  coming  out  of  a  shop, 
a  very  smart-looking  shop,  devoted,  as  Ste.  Marie,  with  some 
surprise  and  much  amusement,  observed,  to  ladies'  hats, 
and  the  price  of  hats  must  have  depressed  him,  for  he  looked 
in  an  ill  humor,  and  older  and  more  yellow  than  usual. 
But  his  face  altered  suddenly  when  he  saw  the  younger 
man,  and  he  stopped  and  shook  Ste.  Marie's  hand  with 
every  evidence  of  pleasure. 

"Well  met!    Well  met!"  he  exclaimed.     "If  you  are  not 

97 


JASON 

in  a  hurry,  come  and  sit  down  somewhere  and  tell  me  about 
yourself." 

They  picked  their  way  across  the  street  to  the  terrace  of 
the  Taverne  Royale,  which  was  almost  deserted  at  that 
hour,  and  sat  down  at  one  of  the  little  tables,  well  back  from 
the  pavement,  in  a  corner. 

"Is  it  fair,"  queried  Captain  Stewart — "is  it  fair,  as  a 
rival  investigator,  to  ask  you  what  success  you  have  had  ?" 

Ste.  Marie  laughed  rather  ruefully,  and  confessed  that  he 
had  as  yet  no  success  at  all. 

"I've  just  come,"  said  he,  "from  pricking  one  bubble 
that  promised  well,  and  Hartley  is  up  in  Montmartre  de 
stroying  another,  I  fancy.  Oh,  well,  we  didn't  expect  it  to 
be  child's  play." 

Captain  Stewart  raised  his  little  glass  of  dry  vermouth 
in  an  old-fashioned  salute  and  drank  it.  . 

"You,"  said  he — "you  were — ah,  full  of  some  idea  of 
connecting  this  man,  this  Irishman  O'Hara,  with  poor 
Arthur's  disappearance.  You've  found  that  not  so  promis 
ing  as  you  went  on,  I  take  it." 

"Well,  I've  been  unable  to  trace  O'Hara,"  said  Ste. 
Marie.  "He  seems  to  have  disappeared  as  completely  as 
your  nephew.  I  suppose  you  have  no  clews  to  spare  ?  I 
confess  I'm  out  of  them  at  the  moment." 

"Oh,  I  have  plenty,"  said  the  elder  man.  "A  hundred. 
More  than  I  can  possibly  look  after."  He  gave  a  little 
chuckling  laugh.  "I've  been  waiting  for  you  to  come  to 
me,"  he  said.  "It  was  a  little  ungenerous,  perhaps,  but 
we  all  love  to  say,  'I  told  you  so.'  Yes,  I  have  a  great 
quantity  of  clews,  and  of  course  they  all  seem  to  be  of  the 
greatest  and  most  exciting  importance.  That's  a  way 
clews  have." 

98 


JASON 

He  took  an  envelope  from  an  inner  pocket  of  his  coat,  and 
sorted  several  folded  papers  which  were  in  it. 

"I  have  here,"  said  he,  "memoranda  of  two — chances, 
shall  I  call  them  ? — which  seem  to  me  very  good,  though, 
as  I  have  already  said,  every  clew  seems  good.  That  is  the 
maddening,  the  heart-breaking,  part  of  such  an  investiga 
tion.  I  have  made  these  brief  notes  from  letters  received, 
one  yesterday,  one  the  day  before,  from  an  agent  of  mine 
who  has  been  searching  the  bains  de  mer  of  the  north  coast. 
This  agent  writes  that  some  one  very  much  resembling 
poor  Arthur  has  been  seen  at  Dinard  and  also  at  Deau- 
ville,  and  he  urges  me  to  come  there  or  to  send  a  man 
there  at  once  to  look  into  the  matter.  You  will  ask,  of 
course,  why  this  agent  himself  does  not  pursue  the  clew  he 
has  found.  Unfortunately,  he  has  been  called  to  London 
upon  some  pressing  family  matter  of  his  own;  he  is  an 
Englishman." 

"Why  haven't  you  gone  yourself?"  asked  Ste.  Marie. 

But  the  elder  man  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled  a 
tired,  deprecatory  smile. 

"Oh,  my  friend,"  said  he,  "if  I  should  attempt  personally 
to  investigate  one-half  of  these  things,  I  should  be  com 
pelled  to  divide  myself  into  twenty  parts.  No,  I  must  stay 
here.  There  must  be,  alas!  the  spider  at  the  centre  of 
the  web.  I  cannot  go;  but  if  you  think  it  worth  while,  I 
will  gladly  turn  over  the  memoranda  of  these  last  clews  to 
you.  They  may  be  the  true  clews,  they  may  not.  At  any 
rate,  some  one  must  look  into  them.  Why  not  you  and 
your  partner — or  shall  I  say  assistant  ?" 

"Why,  thank  you!"  cried  Ste.  Marie.  "A  thousand 
thanks!  Of  course,  I  shall  be — we  shall  be  glad  to  try 
this  chance.  On  the  face  of  it,  it  sounds  very  reasonable. 

99 


JASON 

Your  nephew,  from  what  I  remember  of  him,  is  much  more 
apt  to  be  in  some  place  that  is  amusing,  some  place  of 
gayety,  than  hiding  away  where  it  is  merely  dull,  if  he  has 
his  choice  in  the  matter — that  is,  if  he  is  free.  And  yet — " 
He  turned  and  frowned  thoughtfully  at  the  elder  man. 
"What  I  want  to  know,"  said  he,  "is  how  the  boy  is  sup 
porting  himself  all  this  time  ?  You  say  he  had  no  money,  or 
very  little,  when  he  went  away.  How  is  he  managing  to  live 
if  your  theory  is  correct — that  he  is  staying  away  of  his  own 
accord  ?  It  costs  a  lot  of  money  to  live  as  he  likes  to  live." 

Captain  Stewart  nodded. 

"Oh,  that,"  said  he — "that  is  a  question  I  have  often 
proposed  to  myself.  Frankly,  it's  beyond  me.  I  can  only 
surmise  that  poor  Arthur,  who  had  scattered  a  small  fort 
une  about  in  foolish  loans,  managed,  before  he  actually 
disappeared  (mind  you,  we  didn't  begin  to  look  for  him 
until  a  week  had  gone  by) — managed  to  collect  some  of  this 
money,  and  so  went  away  with  something  in  pocket.  That, 
of  course,  is  only  a  guess." 

"It  is  possible,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  doubtfully,  "but — I 
don't  know.  It  is  not  very  easy  to  raise  money  from  the 
sort  of  people  I  imagine  your  nephew  to  have  lent  it  to. 
They  borrow,  but  they  don't  repay."  He  glanced  up  with 
a  half-laughing,  half-defiant  air.  "I  can't,"  said  he,  "rid 
myself  of  a  belief  that  the  boy  is  here  in  Paris,  and  that  he 
is  not  free  to  come  or  go.  It's  only  a  feeling,  but  it  is  very 
strong  in  me.  Of  course,  I  shall  follow  out  these  clews 
you've  been  so  kind  as  to  give  me.  I  shall  go  to  Dinard 
and  Deauville,  and  Hartley,  I  imagine,  will  go  with  me, 
but  I  haven't  great  confidence  in  them." 

Captain  Stewart  regarded  him  reflectively  for  a  time, 
and  in  the  end  he  smiled. 


100 


JASON 

"If  you  will  pardon  my  saying  it,"  he  said,  "your  atti 
tude  is  just  a  little  womanlike.  You  put  away  reason  for 
something  vaguely  intuitive.  I  always  distrust  intuition 
myself." 

Ste.  Marie  frowned  a  little  and  looked  uncomfortable. 
He  did  not  relish  being  called  womanlike — few  men  do; 
but  he  was  bound  to  admit  that  the  elder  man's  criticism 
was  more  or  less  just. 

"Moreover,"  pursued  Captain  Stewart,  "you  altogether 
ignore  the  point  of  motive — as  I  may  have  suggested  to  you 
before.  There  could  be  no  possible  motive,  so  far  as  I 
am  aware,  for  kidnapping  or  detaining,  or  in  any  way  harm 
ing,  my  nephew  except  the  desire  for  money;  but,  as  you 
know,  he  had  no  large  sum  of  money  with  him,  and  no 
demand  has  been  made  upon  us  since  his  disappearance. 
I'm  afraid  you  can't  get  round  that." 

"No,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  "I'm  afraid  I  can't.  Indeed, 
leaving  that  aside — and  it  can't  be  left  aside — I  still  have 
almost  nothing  with  which  to  prop  up  my  theory.  I  told 
you  it  was  only  a  feeling." 

He  took  up  the  memoranda  which  Captain  Stewart  had 
laid  upon  the  marble-topped  table  between  them,  and  read 
the  notes  through. 

"Please,"  said  he,  "  don't  think  I  am  ungrateful  for  this 
chance.  I  am  not.  I  shall  do  my  best  with  it,  and  I  hope 
it  may  turn  out  to  be  important."  He  gave  a  little  wry 
smile.  "I  have  all  sorts  of  reasons,"  he  said,  "for  wishing 
to  succeed  as  soon  as  possible.  You  may  be  sure  that  there 
won't  be  any  delays  on  my  part.  And  now  I  must  be  going 
on.  I  am  to  meet  Hartley  for  lunch  on  the  other  side  of 
the  river,  and,  if  we  can  manage  it,  I  should  like  to  start 
north  this  afternoon  or  evening." 

101 


JASON 

"Good!"  said  Captain  Stewart,  smiling.  "Good!  That 
is  what  I  call  true  promptness.  You  lose  no  time  at  all. 
Go  to  Dinard  and  Deauville,  by  all  means,  and  look  into 
this  thing  thoroughly.  Don't  be  discouraged  if  you  meet 
with  ill  success  at  first.  Take  Mr.  Hartley  with  you,  and 
do  your  best." 

He  paid  for  the  two  glasses  of  aperitif,  and  Ste.  Marie 
could  not  help  observing  that  he  left  on  the  table  a  very 
small  tip.  The  waiter  cursed  him  audibly  as  the  two 
walked  away. 

"If  you  have  returned  by  a  week  from  to-morrow,"  he 
said,  as  they  shook  hands,  "I  should  like  to  have  you  keep 
that  evening — Thursday — for  me.  I  am  having  a  very  in 
formal  little  party  in  my  rooms.  There  will  be  two  or  three 
of  the  opera  people  there,  and  they  will  sing  for  us,  and 
the  others  will  be  amusing  enough.  All  young — all  young. 
I  like  young  people  about  me."  He  gave  his  odd  little 
mewing  chuckle.  "And  the  ladies  must  be  beautiful  as 
well  as  young.  Come  if  you  are  here!  I'll  drop  a  line  to 
Mr.  Hartley  also." 

He  shook  Ste.  Marie's  hand,  and  went  away  down  the 
street  toward  the  rue  du  Faubourg  St.  Honore  where  he 
lived. 

Ste.  Marie  met  Hartley  as  he  expected  to  do,  at  lunch, 
and  they  talked  over  the  possibilities  of  the  Dinard  and 
Deauville  expedition.  In  the  end  they  decided  that  Ste. 
Marie  should  go  alone,  but  that  he  was  to  telegraph,  later 
on,  if  the  clew  looked  promising.  Hartley  had  two  or  three 
investigations  on  foot  in  Paris,  and  stayed  on  to  complete 
these.  Also  he  wished,  as  soon  as  possible,  to  see  Helen 
Benham  and  explain  Ste.  Marie's  ride  on  the  galloping 
pigs.  Ten  days  had  elapsed  since  that  evening,  but  Miss 

102 


JASON 

Benham  had  gone  into  the  country  the  next  day  to  make 
a  visit  at  the  De  Saulnes'  chateau  on  the  Oise. 

So  Ste.  Marie  packed  a  portmanteau  with  clothes  and 
things,  and  departed  by  a  mid-afternoon  train  to  Dinard, 
and  toward  five  Richard  Hartley  walked  down  to  the  rue 
de  1'Universite.  He  thought  it  just  possible  that  Miss 
Benham  might  by  now  have  returned  to  town,  but  if  not 
he  meant  to  have  half  an  hour's  chat  with  old  David  Stew 
art,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  some  weeks. 

At  the  door  he  learned  that  mademoiselle  was  that  very 
day  returned  and  was  at  home.  So  he  went  in  to  the 
drawing-room,  reserving  his  visit  to  old  David  until  later. 
He  found  the  room  divided  into  two  camps.  At  one  side 
Mrs.  Benham  conversed  in  melancholic  monotones  with 
two  elderly  French  ladies  who  were  clad  in  depressing 
black  of  a  dowdiness  surpassed  only  in  English  provincial 
towns.  It  was  as  if  the  three  mourned  together  over  the 
remains  of  some  dear  one  who  lay  dead  among  them. 
Hartley  bowed  low,  with  an  uncontrollable  shiver,  and 
turned  to  the  tea-table,  where  Miss  Benham  sat  in  the  seat 
of  authority,  flanked  by  a  young  American  lady  whom 
he  had  met  before,  and  by  Baron  de  Vries,  whom  he 
had  not  seen  since  the  evening  of  the  De  Saulnes'  dinner 
party. 

Miss  Benham  greeted  him  with  evident  pleasure,  and  to 
his  great  delight  remembered  just  how  he  liked  his  tea — 
three  pieces  of  sugar  and  no  milk.  It  always  flatters  a 
man  when  his  little  tastes  of  this  sort  are  remembered. 
The  four  fell  at  once  into  conversation  together,  and  the 
young  American  lady  asked  Hartley  why  Ste.  Marie  was 
not  with  him. 

"I  thought  you  two  always  went  about  together,"  she 
8  103 


JASON 

said — "were  never  seen  apart  and  all  that — a  sort  of  mod 
ern  Damon  and  Phidias." 

Hartley  caught  Baron  de  Vries'  eye,  and  looked  away 
again  hastily. 

"My — ah,  Phidias,"  said  he,  resisting  an  irritable  desire 
to  correct  the  lady,  "got  mislaid  to-day.  It  sha'n't  happen 
again,  I  promise  you.  He's  a  very  busy  person  just  now, 
though.  He  hasn't  time  for  social  dissipation.  I'm  the 
butterfly  of  the  pair." 

The  lady  gave  a  sudden  laugh. 

"He  was  busy  enough  the  last  time  I  saw  him,"  she  said, 
crinkling  her  eyelids.  She  turned  to  Miss  Benham.  "Do 
you  remember  that  evening  we  were  going  home  from  the 
Madrid  and  motored  round  by  Montmartre  to  see  the  fete  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Benham,  unsmiling,  "I  remember." 

"Your  friend  Ste.  Marie,"  said  the  American  lady  to 
Hartley,  "was  distinctly  the  lion  of  the  fete — at  the  moment 
we  arrived,  anyhow.  He  was  riding  a  galloping  pig  and 
throwing  those  paper  streamer  things — what  do  you  call 
them  ? — with  both  hands,  and  a  genial  lady  in  a  blue  hat 
was  riding  the  same  pig  and  helping  him  out.  It  was  just 
like  the  Fie  de  Boheme  and  the  other  books.  I  found  it 
charming." 

Baron  de  Vries  emitted  an  amused  chuckle. 

"That  was  very  like  Ste.  Marie,"  he  said.  "Ste.  Marie 
is  a  very  exceptional  young  man.  He  can  be  an  angel  one 
moment,  a  child  playing  with  toys  the  next,  and — well,  a 
rather  commonplace  social  favorite  the  third.  It  all  comes 
of  being  romantic  —  imaginative.  Ste.  Marie —  I  know 
nothing  about  this  evening  of  which  you  speak,  but  Ste. 
Marie  is  quite  capable  of  stopping  on  his  way  to  a  funeral 
to  ride  a  galloping  pig — or  on  his  way  to  his  own  wedding. 

104 


JASON 

And  the  pleasant  part  of  it  is,"  said  Baron  de  Vries,  "that 
the  lad  would  turn  up  at  either  of  these  two  ceremonies  not 
a  bit  the  worse,  outside  or  in,  for  his  ride." 

"Ah,  now,  that's  an  oddly  close  shot,"  said  Hartley.  He 
paused  a  moment,  looking  toward  Miss  Benham,  and  said: 
"I  beg  pardon!  Were  you  going  to  speak  ?" 

"No,"  said  Miss  Benham,  moving  the  things  about  on 
the  tea-table  before  her,  and  looking  down  at  them.  "No, 
not  at  all!" 

"You  came  oddly  close  to  the  truth,"  the  man  went  on, 
turning  back  to  Baron  de  Vries. 

He  was  speaking  for  Helen  Benham's  ears,  and  he  knew 
she  would  understand  that,  but  he  did  not  wish  to  seem  to 
be  watching  her. 

"I  was  with  Ste.  Marie  on  that  evening,"  he  said.  "No, 
I  wasn't  riding  a  pig,  but  I  was  standing  down  in  the 
crowd  throwing  serpentines  at  the  people  who  were.  And 
I  happen  to  know  that  he — that  Ste.  Marie  was  on  that 
day,  that  evening,  more  deeply  concerned  about  some 
thing,  more  absolutely  wrapped  up  in  it,  devoted  to  it,  than 
I  have  ever  known  him  to  be  about  anything  since  I  first 
knew  him.  The  galloping  pig  was  an  incident  that  made, 
except  for  the  moment,  no  impression  whatever  upon  him." 
Hartley  nodded  his  head.  "Yes,"  said  he,  "Ste.  Marie 
can  be  an  angel  one  moment  and  a  child  playing  with  toys 
the  next.  When  he  sees  toys  he  always  plays  with  them, 
and  he  plays  hard,  but  when  he  drops  them  they  go  com 
pletely  out  of  his  mind." 

The  American  lady  laughed. 

"Gracious  me!"  she  cried.  "You  two  are  emphatic 
enough  about  him,  aren't  you  ?" 

"We  know  him,"  said  Baron  de  Vries. 

105 


JASON 

Hartley  rose  to  replace  his  empty  cup  on  the  tea-table. 
Miss  Benham  did  not  meet  his  eyes,  and  as  he  moved  away 
again  she  spoke  to  her  friend  about  something  they  were 
going  to  do  on  the  next  day,  so  Hartley  went  across  to 
where  Baron  de  Vries  sat  at  a  little  distance,  and  took 
a  place  beside  him  on  the  chaise  longue.  The  Belgian 
greeted  him  with  raised  eyebrows  and  the  little,  half-sad, 
half-humorous  smile  which  was  characteristic  of  him  in  his 
gentler  moments. 

"You  were  defending  our  friend  with  a  purpose,"  he  said, 
in  a  low  voice.  "Good!  I  am  afraid  he  needs  it — here." 

The  younger  man  hesitated  a  moment.     Then  he  said: 

"I  came  on  purpose  to  do  that.  Ste.  Marie  knows  that 
she  saw  him  on  that  confounded  pig.  He  was  half  wild 
with  distress  over  it,  because — well,  the  meeting  was  singu 
larly  unfortunate  just  then.  I  can't  explain — " 

"You  needn't  explain,"  said  the  Belgian,  gravely.  "I 
know.  Helen  told  me  some  days  ago,  though  she  did 
not  mention  this  encounter.  Yes,  defend  him  with  all 
your  power,  if  you  will.  Stay  after  we  others  have  gone 
and — have  it  out  with  her.  The  Phidias  lady  (I  must 
remember  that  mot,  by-the-way)  is  preparing  to  take  her 
leave  now,  and  I  will  follow  her  at  once.  She  shall  believe 
that  I  am  enamoured,  that  I  sigh  for  her.  Eh!"  said  he, 
shaking  his  head  —  and  the  lines  in  the  kindly  old  face 
seemed  to  deepen,  but  in  a  sort  of  grave  tenderness — "eh, 
so  love  has  come  to  the  dear  lad  at  last!  Ah,  of  course, 
the  hundred  other  affairs!  Yes,  yes.  But  they  were  light. 
No  seriousness  in  them.  The  ladies  may  have  loved.  He 
didn't — very  much.  This  time,  I'm  afraid — " 

Baron  de  Vries  paused  as  if  he  did  not  mean  to  finish 
his  sentence,  and  Hartley  said: 

1 06 


JASON 

"You  say  'afraid'!     Why  afraid  ?" 

The  Belgian  looked  up  at  him  reflectively. 

"Did  I  say  'afraid'?"  he  asked.  "Well,  perhaps  it 
was  the  word  I  wanted.  I  wonder  if  these  two  are  fitted 
for  each  other.  I  am  fond  of  them  both.  I  think  you 
know  that,  but — she's  not  very  flexible,  this  child.  And  she 
hasn't  much  humor.  I  love  her,  but  I  know  those  things 
are  true.  I  wonder  if  one  ought  to  marry  Ste.  Marie  with 
out  flexibility  and  without  humor." 

"If  they  love  each  other,"  said  Richard  Hartley,  "I 
expect  the  other  things  don't  count.  Do  they  ?" 

Baron  de  Vries  rose  to  his  feet,  for  he  saw  that  the  Phidias 
lady  was  going. 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  he;  "I  hope  not.  In  any  case, 
do  your  best  for  him  with  Helen.  Make  her  comprehend 
if  you  can.  I  am  afraid  she  is  unhappy  over  the  affair." 

He  made  his  adieus,  and  went  away  with  the  American 
lady,  to  that  young  person's  obvious  excitement.  And 
after  a  moment  the  three  ladies  across  the  room  departed 
also,  Mrs.  Benham  explaining  that  she  was  taking  her 
two  friends  up  to  her  own  sitting-room,  to  show  them  some 
thing  vaguely  related  to  the  heathen.  So  Hartley  was  left 
alone  with  Helen  Benham. 

It  was  not  his  way  to  beat  about  the  bush,  and  he  gave 
battle  at  once.  He  said,  standing,  to  say  it  more  easily: 

"You  know  why  I  came  here  to-day?  It  was  the  first 
chance  I've  had  since  that — unfortunate  evening.  I  came 
on  Ste.  Marie's  account." 

Miss  Benham  said  a  weak  "Oh!"  And  because  she  was 
nervous  and  overwrought,  and  because  the  thing  meant  so 
much  to  her,  she  said,  cheaply:  "He  owes  me  no  apologies. 
He  has  a  perfect  right  to  act  as  he  pleases,  you  know." 

107 


JASON 

The  Englishman  frowned  across  at  her.  "I  didn't  come 
to  make  apologies,"  said  he.  "I  came  to  explain.  Well, 
I  have  explained — Baron  de  Vries  and  I  together.  That's 
just  how  it  happened.  And  that's  just  how  Ste.  Marie 
takes  things.  The  point  is  that  you've  got  to  understand  it. 
I've  got  to  make  you." 

The  girl  smiled  up  at  him  dolefully.  "You  look,"  she 
said,  "as  if  you  were  going  to  beat  me  if  necessary.  You 
look  very  warlike." 

"I  feel  warlike,"  the  man  said,  nodding.  He  said:  "I'm 
righting  for  a  friend  to  whom  you  are  doing,  in  your  mind, 
an  injustice.  I  know  him  better  than  you  do,  and  I  tell 
you  you're  doing  him  a  grave  injustice.  You're  failing  al 
together  to  understand  him." 

"I  wonder,"  the  girl  said,  looking  very  thoughtfully  down 
at  the  table  before  her. 

"I  know,"  said  he. 

Quite  suddenly  she  gave  a  little  overwrought  cry,  and  she 
put  up  her  hands  over  her  face.  "Oh,  Richard!"  she  said, 
"that  day  when  he  was  here!  He  left  me — oh,  I  cannot  tell 
you  at  what  a  height  he  left  me!  It  was  something  new  and 
beautiful.  He  swept  me  to  the  clouds  with  him.  And  I 
might — perhaps  I  might  have  lived  on  there.  Who  knows  ? 
But  then  that  hideous  evening!  Ah,  it  was  too  sickening: 
the  fall  back  to  common  earth  again!" 

"I  know,"  said  the  man,  gently  —  "I  know.  And  he 
knew,  too.  Directly  he'd  seen  you  he  knew  how  you  would 
feel  about  it.  I'm  not  pretending  that  it  was  of  no  con 
sequence.  It  was  unfortunate,  of  course.  But  the  point 
is,  it  did  not  mean  in  him  any  slackening,  any  stooping,  any 
letting  go.  It  was  a  moment's  incident.  We  went  to  the 
wretched  place  by  accident  after  dinner.  Ste.  Marie  saw 

108 


JASON 

h  those  childish  lunatics  at  play,  and  for  about  two  minutes 
he  played  with  them.  The  lady  in  the  blue  hat  made  it 
appear  a  little  more  extreme,  and  that's  all." 

Miss  Benham  rose  to  her  feet  and  moved  restlessly  back 
and  forth.  "Oh,  Richard,"  she  said,  "the  golden  spell  is 
broken — the  enchantment  he  laid  upon  me  that  day.  I'm 
not  like  him,  you  know.  Oh,  I  wish  I  were!  I  wish  I  were! 
I  can't  change  from  hour  to  hour.  I  can't  rise  to  the  clouds 
again  after  my  fall  to  earth.  It  has  all — become  something 
different.  Don't  misunderstand  me!"  she  cried.  "I  don't 
mean  that  I've  ceased  to  care  for  him.  No,  far  from  that! 
But  I  was  in  such  an  exalted  heaven,  and  now  I'm  not  there 
any  more.  Perhaps  he  can  lift  me  to  it  again.  Oh  yes, 
I'm  sure  he  can,  when  I  see  him  once  more;  but  I  wanted  to 
go  on  living  there  so  happily  while  he  was  away!  Do  you 
understand  at  all  ?" 

"I  think  I  do,"  the  man  said,  but  he  looked  at  her  very 
curiously  and  a  little  sadly,  for  it  was  the  first  time  he  had 
ever  seen  her  swept  from  her  superb  poise  by  any  emotion, 
and  he  hardly  recognized  her.  It  was  very  bitter  to  him  to 
realize  that  he  could  never  have  stirred  her  to  this — never, 
under  any  conceivable  circumstances. 

The  girl  came  to  him  where  he  stood,  and  touched  his 
arm  with  her  hand.  "He  is  waiting  to  hear  how  I  feel 
about  it  all,  isn't  he?"  she  said.  "He  is  waiting  to  know 
that  I  understand.  Will  you  tell  him  a  little  lie  for  me, 
Richard  ?  No,  you  needn't  tell  a  lie.  I  will  tell  it.  Tell 
him  that  I  said  I  understood  perfectly.  Tell  him  that  I 
was  shocked  for  a  moment,  but  that  afterward  I  under 
stood  and  thought  no  more  about  it.  Will  you  tell  him  I 
said  that  ?  It  won't  be  a  lie  from  you,  because  I  did  say  it. 
Oh,  I  will  not  grieve  him  or  hamper  him  now  while  he  is 

109 


JASON 

working  in  my  cause!     I'll  tell  him  a  lie  rather  than  have* 
him  grieve." 

"Need  it  be  a  lie  ?"  said  Richard  Hartley.  "Can't  you 
truly  believe  what  you've  said  ?" 

She  shook  her  head  slowly. 

"I'll  try,"  said  she,  "but — my  golden  spell  is  broken  and 
I  can't  mend  it  alone.  I'm  sorry." 

He  turned  with  a  little  sigh  to  leave  her,  but  Miss  Benham 
followed  him  toward  the  door  of  the  drawing-room. 

"You're  a  good  friend,  Richard,"  she  said,  when  she  had 
come  near — "you're  a  good  friend  to  him." 

"He  deserves  good  friends,"  said  the  young  man,  stoutly. 
"And  besides,"  said  he,  "we're  brothers  in  arms  nowadays. 
We've  enlisted  together  to  fight  for  the  same  cause."  The 
girl  fell  back  with  a  little  cry. 

"Do  you  mean,"  she  said,  after  a  moment — "do  you 
mean  that  you  are  working  with  him — to  find  Arthur  ?" 

Hartley  nodded. 

"But—"  said  she,  stammering.     "But,  Richard— 

The  man  checked  her. 

"Oh,  I  know  what  I'm  doing,"  said  he.  "My  eyes  are 
open.  I  know  that  I'm  not — well,  in  the  running.  I  work 
for  no  reward  except  a  desire  to  help  you  and  Ste.  Marie. 
That's  all.  It  pleases  me  to  be  useful." 

He  went  away  with  that,  not  waiting  for  an  answer,  and 
the  girl  stood  where  he  had  left  her,  staring  after  him. 


X 

CAPTAIN   STEWART   ENTERTAINS 

STE.  MARIE  returned,  after  three  days,  from  Dinard 
in  a  depressed  and  somewhat  puzzled  frame  of  mind. 
He  had  found  no  trace  whatever  of  Arthur  Benham,  either 
at  Dinard  or  at  Deauville,  and,  what  was  more,  he  was  un 
able  to  discover  that  any  one  even  remotely  resembling  that 
youth  had  been  seen  at  either  place.  The  matter  of  identi 
fication,  it  seemed  to  him,  should  be  a  rather  simple  one. 
In  the  first  place,  the  boy's  appearance  was  not  at  all 
French,  nor,  for  that  matter,  English;  it  was  very  American. 
Also,  he  spoke  French — so  Ste.  Marie  had  been  told — very 
badly,  having  for  the  language  that  scornful  contempt 
peculiar  to  Anglo-Saxons  of  a  certain  type.  His  speech,  it 
seemed,  was,  like  his  appearance,  ultra-American — full  of 
strange  idioms  and  oddly  pronounced.  In  short,  such  a 
youth  would  be  rather  sure  to  be  remembered  by  any  hotel 
management  and  staff  with  which  he  might  have  come  in 
contact. 

At  first  Ste.  Marie  pursued  his  investigations  quietly  and, 
as  it  were,  casually;  but  after  his  initial  failure  he  went  to 
the  managements  of  the  various  hotels  and  lodging-houses, 
and  to  the  cafes  and  bathing  establishments,  and  told  them, 
with  all  frankness,  a  part  of  the  truth — that  he  was  searching 
for  a  young  man  whose  disappearance  had  caused  great 

HI 


JASON 

distress  to  his  family.  He  was  not  long  in  discovering  that 
no  such  young  man  could  have  been  either  in  Dinard  or 
Deauville. 

The  thing  which  puzzled  him  was  that,  apart  from  find 
ing  no  trace  of  the  missing  boy,  he  also  found  no  trace  of 
Captain  Stewart's  agent — the  man  who  had  been  first  on 
the  ground.  No  one  seemed  able  to  recollect  that  such  a 
person  had  been  making  inquiries,  and  Ste.  Marie  began  to 
suspect  that  his  friend  was  being  imposed  upon.  He  de 
termined  to  warn  Stewart  that  his  agents  were  earning  their 
fees  too  easily. 

So  he  returned  to  Paris  more  than  a  little  dejected,  and 
sore  over  this  waste  of  time  and  effort.  He  arrived  by  a 
noon  train,  and  drove  across  the  city  in  a  fiacre  to  the  rue 
d'Assas.  But  as  he  was  in  the  midst  of  unpacking  his 
portmanteau — for  he  kept  no  servant;  a  woman  came  in 
once  a  day  to  "do"  the  rooms — the  door-bell  rang.  It  was 
Baron  de  Vries,  and  Ste.  Marie  admitted  him  with  an  ex 
clamation  of  surprise  and  pleasure. 

"You  passed  me  in  the  street  just  now,"  explained  the 
Belgian,  "and  as  I  was  a  few  minutes  early  for  a  lunch 
engagement  I  followed  you  up."  He  pointed  with  his  stick 
at  the  open  bag.  "Ah,  you  have  been  on  a  journey! 
Detective  work  ?" 

Ste.  Marie  pushed  his  guest  into  a  chair,  gave  him 
cigarettes,  and  told  him  about  the  fruitless  expedition  to 
Dinard.  He  spoke,  also,  of  his  belief  that  Captain  Stewart's 
agent  had  never  really  found  a  clew  at  all;  and  at  that 
Baron  de  Vries  nodded  his  gray  head  and  said,  "Ah!"  in  a 
tone  of  some  significance.  Afterward  he  smoked  a  little 
while  in  silence,  but  presently  he  said,  as  if  with  some 
hesitation:  "May  I  be  permitted  to  offer  a  word  of  advice  ?" 

112 


JASON 

"But  surely!"  cried  Ste.  Marie,  kicking  away  the  half- 
empty  portmanteau.  "Why  not?" 

"  Do  whatever  you  are  going  to  do  in  this  matter  accord 
ing  to  your  own  judgment,"  said  the  elder  man,  "or  ac 
cording  to  Mr.  Hartley's  and  your  combined  judgments. 
Make  your  investigations  without  reference  to  our  friend 
Captain  Stewart."  He  halted  there  as  if  that  were  all  he 
had  meant  to  say,  but  when  he  saw  Ste.  Marie's  raised  eye 
brows  he  frowned  and  went  on,  slowly,  as  if  picking  his 
words  with  some  care.  "I  should  be  sorry,"  he  said,  "to 
have  Captain  Stewart  at  the  head  of  any  investigation  of 
this  nature  in  which  I  was  deeply  interested — just  now,  at 
any  rate.  I  am  afraid — it  is  difficult  to  say;  I  do  not  wish 
to  say  too  much — I  am  afraid  he  is  not  quite  the  man  for 
the  position." 

Ste.  Marie  nodded  his  head  with  great  emphasis.  "Ah," 
he  cried,  "that's  just  what  I  have  felt,  you  know,  all  along! 
And  it's  what  Hartley  felt,  too,  I'm  sure.  No,  Stewart  is 
not  the  sort  for  a  detective.  He's  too  cocksure.  He  won't 
admit  that  he  might  possibly  be  wrong  now  and  then.  He's 
too—" 

"He  is  too  much  occupied  with  other  matters,"  said 
Baron  de  Vries. 

Ste.  Marie  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a  chair.  "Other 
matters  ?"  he  demanded.  "That  sounds  mysterious.  What 
other  matters  ?" 

"Oh,  there  is  nothing  very  mysterious  about  it,"  said  the 
elder  man.  He  frowned  down  at  his  cigarette,  and  brushed 
some  fallen  ash  neatly  from  his  knees.  "Captain  Stewart," 
said  he,  "is  badly  worried,  and  has  been  for  the  past  year 
or  so — badly  worried  over  money  matters  and  other  things. 
He  has  lost  enormous  sums  at  play,  as  I  happen  to  know, 


JASON 

and  he  has  lost  still  more  enormous  sums  at  Auteuil  and 
at  Longchamps.  Also,  the  ladies  are  not  without  their  de 
mands." 

Ste.  Marie  gave  a  shout  of  laughter.  "Comment  done!" 
he  cried.  "Ce  vieillard  ?" 

"Ah,  well,"  deprecated  the  other  man.  "Vieillard  is 
putting  it  rather  high.  He  can't  be  more  than  fifty,  I  should 
think.  To  be  sure,  he  looks  older;  but  then,  in  his  day,  he 
lived  a  great  deal  in  a  short  time.  Do  you  happen  to  re 
member  Olga  Nilssen  ?" 

"I  do,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "I  remember  her  very  well, 
indeed.  I  was  a  sort  of  go-between  in  settling  up  that  affair 
with  Morrison.  Morrison's  people  asked  me  to  do  what  I 
could.  Yes,  I  remember  her  well,  and  with  some  pleasure. 
I  felt  sorry  for  her,  you  know.  People  didn't  quite  know  the 
truth  of  that  affair.  Morrison  behaved  very  badly  to  her." 

"Yes,"  said  Baron  de  Vries,  "and  Captain  Stewart  has 
behaved  very  badly  to  her  also.  She  is  furious  with  rage 
or  jealousy — or  both.  She  goes  about,  I  am  told,  threaten 
ing  to  kill  him,  and  it  would  be  rather  like  her  to  do  it 
one  day.  Well,  I  have  dragged  in  all  this  scandal  by  way 
of  showing  you  that  Stewart  has  his  hands  full  of  his  own 
affairs  just  now,  and  so  cannot  give  the  attention  he  ought 
to  give  to  hunting  out  his  nephew.  As  you  suggest,  his 
agents  may  be  deceiving  him.  I  don't  know.  I  suppose 
they  could  do  it  easily  enough.  If  I  were  you  I  should 
set  to  work  quite  independently  of  him." 

"Yes,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  in  an  absent  tone.  "Oh  yes, 
I  shall  do  that,  you  may  be  sure."  He  gave  a  sudden  smile. 
"He's  a  queer  type,  this  Captain  Stewart.  He  begins  to  in 
terest  me  very  much.  I  had  never  suspected  this  side  of 
him,  though  I  remember  now  that  I  once  saw  him  coming 

114 


JASON 

out  of  a  milliner's  shop.  He  looks  rather  an  ascetic — rather 
donnish,  don't  you  think  ?  I  remember  that  he  talked  to  me 
one  day  quite  pathetically  about  feeling  his  age  and  about 
liking  young  people  round  him.  He's  an  odd  character. 
Fancy  him  mixed  up  in  an  affair  with  Olga  Nilssen!  Or, 
rather,  fancy  her  involved  in  an  affair  with  him!  What  can 
she  have  seen  in  him  ?  She's  not  mercenary,  you  know — 
at  least,  she  used  not  to  be." 

"Ah!  there,"  said  Baron  de  Vries,  "you  enter  upon  a 
terra  incognita.  No  one  can  say  what  a  woman  sees  in 
this  man  or  in  that.  It's  beyond  our  ken." 

He  rose  to  take  his  leave,  and  Ste.  Marie  went  with  him 
to  the  door. 

"I've  been  asked  to  a  sort  of  party  at  Stewart's  rooms 
this  week,"  Ste.  Marie  said.  "I  don't  know  whether  I 
shall  go  or  not.  Probably  not.  I  suppose  I  shouldn't  find 
Olga  Nilssen  there  ?" 

"Well,  no,"  said  the  Belgian,  laughing.  "No,  I  hardly 
think  so.  Good-bye!  Think  over  what  I've  told  you. 
Good-bye!" 

He  went  away  down  the  stair,  and  Ste.  Marie  returned 
to  his  unpacking. 

Nothing  more  of  consequence  occurred  in  the  next  few 
days.  Hartley  had  unearthed  a  somewhat  shabby  ad 
venturer  who  swore  to  having  seen  the  Irishman  O'Hara 
in  Paris  within  a  month,  but  it  was  by  no  means  certain 
that  this  being  did  not  merely  affirm  what  he  believed  to  be 
desired  of  him,  and  in  any  case  the  information  was  of  no 
especial  value,  since  it  was  O'Hara's  present  whereabouts 
that  was  the  point  at  issue.  So  it  came  to  Thursday  even 
ing.  Ste.  Marie  received  a  note  from  Captain  Stewart 
during  the  day,  reminding  him  that  he  was  to  come  to  the 

"5 


JASON 

rue  du  Faubourg  St.  Honore  that  evening,  and  asking  him 
to  come  early,  at  ten  or  thereabouts,  so  that  the  two  could 
have  a  comfortable  chat  before  any  one  else  turned  up. 
Ste.  Marie  had  about  decided  not  to  go  at  all,  but  the 
courtesy  of  this  special  invitation  from  Miss  Benham's 
uncle  made  it  rather  impossible  for  him  to  stay  away.  He 
tried  to  persuade  Hartley  to  follow  him  on  later  in  the 
evening,  but  that  gentleman  flatly  refused  and  went  away 
to  dine  with  some  English  friends  at  Armenonville. 

So  Ste.  Marie,  in  a  vile  temper,  dined  quite  alone  at 
Lavenue's,  beside  the  Gare  Montparnasse,  and  toward 
ten  o'clock  drove  across  the  river  to  the  rue  du  Faubourg. 
Captain  Stewart's  flat  was  up  five  stories,  at  the  top  of  the 
building  in  which  it  was  located,  and  so,  well  above  the 
noises  of  the  street.  Ste.  Marie  went  up  in  the  automatic 
lift,  and  at  the  door  above  his  host  met  him  in  person,  say 
ing  that  the  one  servant  he  kept  was  busy  making  prepara 
tions  in  the  kitchen  beyond.  They  entered  a  large  room, 
long  but  comparatively  shallow,  in  shape  not  unlike  the 
sitting-room  in  the  rue  d'Assas,  but  very  much  bigger,  and 
Ste.  Marie  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise  and  pleasure, 
for  he  had  never  before  seen  an  interior  anything  like  this. 
The  room  was  decorated  and  furnished  entirely  in  Chinese 
and  Japanese  articles  of  great  age  and  remarkable  beauty. 
Ste.  Marie  knew  little  of  the  hieratic  art  of  these  two  coun 
tries,  but  he  fancied  that  the  place  must  be  an  endless  de 
light  to  the  expert. 

The  general  tone  of  the  room  was  gold,  dulled  and  soft 
ened  by  great  age  until  it  had  ceased  to  glitter,  and  relieved 
by  the  dusty  Chinese  blue  and  by  old  red  faded  to  rose 
and  by  warm  ivory  tints.  The  great  expanse  of  the  walls 
was  covered  by  a  brownish-yellow  cloth,  coarse  like  bur- 

116 


JASON 

lap,  and  against  it,  round  the  room,  hung  sixteen  large 
panels  representing  the  sixteen  Rakan.  They  were  early 
copies — fifteenth  century,  Captain  Stewart  said — of  those 
famous  originals  by  the  Chinese  Sung  master  Ririomin, 
which  have  been  for  six  hundred  years  or  more  the  treasures 
of  Japan.  They  were  mounted  upon  Japanese  brocade  of 
blue  and  dull  gold,  framed  in  keyaki  wood,  and  out  of 
their  brown,  time-stained  shadows  the  great  Rakan  scowled 
or  grinned  or  placidly  gazed,  grotesquely  graceful  master 
pieces  of  a  perished  art. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  room,  under  a  gilded  canopy  of 
intricate  wood-carving,  stood  upon  his  pedestal  of  many- 
petalled  lotus  a  great  statue  of  Amida  Buddha  in  the  yogi 
attitude  of  contemplation,  and  at  intervals  against  the  other 
walls  other  smaller  images  stood  or  sat:  Buddha,  in  many 
incarnations;  Kwannon,  goddess  of  mercy;  Jizo  Bosatzu 
Hotei,  pot-bellied,  god  of  contentment;  Jingo-Kano,  god 
of  war.  In  the  centre  of  the  place  was  a  Buddhist  temple 
table,  and  priests'  chairs,  lacquered  and  inlaid,  stood  about 
the  room.  The  floor  was  covered  with  Chinese  rugs,  dull 
yellow  with  blue  flowers,  and  over  a  doorway  which  led 
into  another  room  was  fixed  a  huge  rama  of  Chinese  pierced 
carving,  gilded,  in  which  there  were  trees  and  rocks  and 
little  grouped  figures  of  the  hundred  immortals. 

It,  was,  indeed  an  extraordinary  room.  Ste.  Marie  looked 
about  its  mellow  glow  with  a  half-comprehending  wonder, 
and  he  looked  at  the  man  beside  him  curiously,  for  here 
was  another  side  to  this  many-sided  character.  Captain 
Stewart  smiled. 

"You  like  my  museum?"  he  asked.  "Few  people  care 
much  for  it  except,  of  course,  those  who  go  in  for  the 
Oriental  arts.  Most  of  my  friends  think  it  bizarre — too 

117 


JASON 

grotesque  and  unusual.  I  have  tried  to  satisfy  them  by 
including  those  comfortable  low  divan-couches  (they  re 
fuse  altogether  to  sit  in  the  priests'  chairs),  but  still  they 
are  unhappy." 

He  called  his  servant,  who  came  to  take  Ste.  Marie's 
hat  and  coat  and  returned  with  smoking  things. 

"It  seems  entirely  wonderful  to  me,"  said  the  younger 
man.  "I'm  not  an  expert  at  all — I  don't  know  who  the 
gentlemen  in  those  sixteen  panels  are,  for  example — but 
it  is  very  beautiful.  I  have  never  seen  anything  like  it 
at  all."  He  gave  a  little  laugh.  "Will  it  sound  very  im 
pertinent  in  me,  I  wonder,  if  I  express  surprise — not  sur 
prise  at  finding  this  magnificent  room,  but  at  discovering 
that  this  sort  of  thing  is  a  taste  and,  very  evidently,  a  serious 
study  of  yours  ?  You — I  remember  your  saying  once  with 
some  feeling  that  it  was  youth  and  beauty  and — well, 
freshness  that  you  liked  best  to  be  surrounded  by.  This," 
said  Ste.  Marie,  waving  an  inclusive  hand,  "was  young  so 
many  centuries  ago!  It  fairly  breathes  antiquity  and 
death." 

"Yes,"  said  Captain  Stewart,  thoughtfully.  "Yes,  that 
is  quite  true." 

The  two  had  seated  themselves  upon  one  of  the  broad, 
low  benches  which  had  been  built  into  the  place  to  satisfy 
the  Philistine. 

"I  find  it  hard  to  explain,"  he  said,  "because  both  things 
are  passions  of  mine.  Youth — I  could  not  exist  without 
it.  Since  I  have  it  no  longer  in  my  own  body,  I  wish  to 
see  it  about  me.  It  gives  me  life.  It  keeps  my  heart  beat 
ing.  I  must  have  it  near.  And  then  this — antiquity  and 
death,  beautiful  things  made  by  hands  dead  centuries  ago 
in  an  alien  country!  I  love  this,  too.  I  didn't  speak  too 

118 


JASON 

strongly;  it  is  a  sort  of  passion  with  me — something  quite 
beyond  the  collector's  mania — quite  beyond  that.  Some 
times,  do  you  know,  I  stay  at  home  in  the  evening,  and  I 
sit  here  quite  alone,  with  the  lights  half  on,  and  for  hours 
together  I  smoke  and  watch  these  things — the  quiet,  sure, 
patient  smile  of  that  Buddha,  for  example.  Think  how 
long  he  has  been  smiling  like  that,  and  waiting!  Waiting 
for  what  ?  There  is  something  mysterious  beyond  all  words 
in  that  smile  of  his,  that  fixed,  crudely  carved  wooden  smile 
— no,  I'll  be  hanged  if  it's  crude!  It  is  beyond  our  modern 
art.  The  dead  men  carved  better  than  we  do.  We 
couldn't  manage  that  with  such  simple  means.  We  can 
only  reproduce  what  is  before  us.  We  can't  carve  ques 
tions — mysteries — everlasting  riddles." 

Through  the  pale-blue,  wreathing  smoke  of  his  cigarette 
Captain  Stewart  gazed  down  the  room  to  where  eternal 
Buddha  stood  and  smiled  eternally.  And  from  there  the 
man's  eyes  moved  with  slow  enjoyment  along  the  opposite 
wall  over  those  who  sat  or  stood  there,  over  the  panels  of 
the  ancient  Rakan,  over  carved  lotus,  and  gilt  contorted 
dragon  forever  in  pursuit  of  the  holy  pearl.  He  drew  a 
short  breath  which  seemed  to  bespeak  extreme  content 
ment,  the  keenest  height  of  pleasure,  and  he  stirred  a  little 
where  he  sat  and  settled  himself  among  the  cushions.  Ste. 
Marie  watched  him,  and  the  expression  of  the  man's  face 
began  to  be  oddly  revolting.  It  was  the  face  of  a  voluptuary 
in  the  presence  of  his  desire.  He  was  uncomfortable,  and 
wished  to  say  something  to  break  the  silence,  but,  as  often 
occurs  at  such  a  time,  he  could  think  of  nothing  to  say. 
So  there  was  a  brief  silence  between  them.  But  presently 
Captain  Stewart  roused  himself  with  an  obvious  effort. 

"Here,  this  won't  do!"  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  whimsical 
9  119 


JASON 

apology.  "This  won't  do,  you  know.  I'm  floating  off  on 
my  hobby  (and  there's  a  mixed  metaphor  that  would  do 
credit  to  your  own  Milesian  blood!).  I'm  boring  you  to 
extinction,  and  I  don't  want  to  do  that,  for  I'm  anxious  that 
you  should  come  here  again — and  often.  I  should  like  to 
have  you  form  the  habit.  What  was  it  I  had  in  mind  to 
ask  you  about?  Ah,  yes!  The  journey  to  Dinard  and 
Deauville.  I  am  afraid  it  turned  out  to  be  fruitless  or  you 
would  have  let  me  know." 

"Entirely  fruitless,"  said  Ste.  Marie, 

He  went  on  to  tell  the  elder  man  of  his  investigation,  and 
of  his  certainty  that  no  one  resembling  Arthur  Benham  had 
been  at  either  of  the  two  places. 

"It's  no  affair  of  mine,  to  be  sure,"  he  said,  "but  I  rather 
suspect  that  your  agent  was  deceiving  you — pretending  to 
have  accomplished  something  by  way  of  making  you  think 
he  was  busy." 

Ste.  Marie  was  so  sure  the  other  would  immediately  dis 
claim  this  that  he  waited  for  the  word,  and  gave  a  little 
smothered  laugh  when  Captain  Stewart  said,  promptly: 

"Oh  no!  No!  That  is  impossible.  I  have  every  con 
fidence  in  that  man.  He  is  one  of  my  best.  No,  you  are 
mistaken  there.  I  am  more  disappointed  than  you  could 
possibly  be  over  the  failure  of  your  efforts,  but  I  am  quite 
sure  my  man  thought  he  had  something  worth  working 
upon.  By-the-way,  I  have  received  another  rather  curious 
communication — from  Ostend  this  time.  I  will  show  you 
the  letter,  and  you  may  try  your  luck  there  if  you  would 
care  to."  He  felt  in  his  pockets  and  then  rose.  "I've 
left  the  thing  in  another  coat,"  said  he;  "if  you  will  allow 
me,  I'll  fetch  it."  But  before  he  had  turned  away  the  door 
bell  rang  and  he  paused.  "Ah,  well,"  he  said,  "another 

1 20 


HE    SAW    CAPTAIN    STEWART   MOVING    AMONG   THEM 


JASON 

time.  Here  are  some  of  my  guests.  They  have  come 
earlier  than  I  had  expected." 

The  new  arrivals  were  three  very  perfectly  dressed  ladies, 
one  of  them  an  operatic  light,  who  chanced  not  to  be  singing 
that  evening  and  whom  Ste.  Marie  had  met  before.  The 
two  others  were  rather  difficult  of  classification,  but  proba 
bly,  he  thought,  ornaments  of  that  mysterious  border-land 
between  the  two  worlds  which  seems  to  give  shelter  to  so 
many  people  against  whose  characters  nothing  definite  is 
known,  but  whose  antecedents  and  connections  are  not  made 
topics  of  conversation.  The  three  ladies  seemed  to  be  on 
very  friendly  terms  with  Captain  Stewart,  and  greeted  him 
with  much  noisy  delight.  One  of  the  unclassified  two, 
when  her  host,  with  a  glance  toward  Ste.  Marie,  addressed 
her  formally,  seemed  inordinately  amused,  and  laughed  for 
a  long  time. 

Within  the  next  hour  ten  or  a  dozen  other  guests  had 
arrived,  and  they  all  seemed  to  know  one  another  very  well, 
and  proceeded  to  make  themselves  quite  at  home.  Ste. 
Marie  regarded  them  with  a  reflective  and  not  over-enthu 
siastic  eye,  and  he  wondered  a  good  deal  why  he  had  been 
asked  here  to  meet  them.  He  was  as  far  from  a  prig  or  a 
snob  as  any  man  could  very  well  be,  and  he  often  went  to 
very  Bohemian  parties  which  were  given  by  his  painter  or 
musician  friends,  but  these  people  seemed  to  him  quite 
different.  The  men,  with  the  exception  of  two  eminent 
opera-singers,  who  quite  obviously  had  been  asked  because 
of  their  voices,  were  the  sort  of  men  who  abound  at  such 
places  as  Ostend  and  Monte  Carlo,  and  Baden-Baden  in  the 
race  week.  That  is  not  to  say  that  they  were  ordinary 
racing  touts  or  the  cheaper  kind  of  adventurers  (there  was 
a  count  among  them,  and  a  marquis  who  had  recently  been 

121 


JASON 

divorced  by  his  American  wife),  but  adventurers  of  a  sort 
they  undoubtedly  were.  There  was  not  one  of  them,  so 
far  as  Ste.  Marie  was  aware,  who  was  received  anywhere 
in  good  society,  and  he  resented  very  much  being  compelled 
to  meet  them. 

Naturally  enough,  he  felt  much  less  concern  on  the  score 
of  the  ladies.  It  is  an  undoubted  and  well-nigh  universal 
truth  that  men  who  would  refuse  outright  to  meet  certain 
classes  of  their  own  sex  show  no  reluctance  whatever  over 
meeting  the  women  of  a  corresponding  circle — that  is,  if  the 
women  are  attractive.  It  is  a  depressing  fact  and  inclines 
one  to  sighs  and  head-shakes,  and  some  moral  indignation, 
until  the  reverse  truth  is  brought  to  light — namely,  that 
women  have  identically  the  same  point  of  view;  that,  while 
they  cast  looks  of  loathing  and  horror  upon  certain  of  their 
sisters,  they  will  meet  with  pleasure  any  presentable  man 
whatever  his  crimes  or  vices. 

Ste.  Marie  was  very  much  puzzled  over  all  this.  It 
seemed  to  him  so  unnecessary  that  a  man  who  really  had 
some  footing  in  the  newer  society  of  Paris  should  choose  to 
surround  himself  with  people  of  this  type;  but  as  he  looked 
on  and  wondered  he  became  aware  of  a  curious  and,  in  the 
light  of  a  past  conversation,  significant  fact:  all  of  the 
people  in  the  room  were  young;  all  of  them  in  their  varying 
fashions  and  degrees  very  attractive  to  look  upon;  all  full 
to  overflowing  of  life  and  spirits  and  the  determination  to 
have  a  good  time.  He  saw  Captain  Stewart  moving  among 
them,  playing  very  gracefully  his  role  of  host,  and  the  man 
seemed  to  have  dropped  twenty  years  from  his  shoulders. 
A  miracle  of  rejuvenation  seemed  to  have  come  upon  him: 
his  eyes  were  bright  and  eager,  the  color  was  high  in  his 
cheeks,  and  the  dry,  pedantic  tone  had  gone  from  his  voice. 

122 


JASON 

Ste.  Marie  watched  him,  and  at  last  he  thought  he  under 
stood.  It  was  half  revolting,  half  pathetic,  he  thought,  but 
it  certainly  was  interesting  to  see. 

Duval,  the  great  basso  of  the  Opera,  accompanied  at  the 
piano  by  one  of  the  unclassified  ladies,  was  just  finishing 
Mephistopheles'  drinking  song  out  of  Faust  when  the  door 
bell  rang. 


XI 

A  GOLDEN  LADY  ENTERS  —  THE  EYES  AGAIN 

'T'HE  music  of  voice  and  piano  was  very  loud  just  then, 
1  so  that  the  little,  soft,  whirring  sound  of  the  electric 
bell  reached  only  one  or  two  pairs  of  ears  in  the  big  room. 
It  did  not  reach  the  host  certainly,  and  neither  he  nor  most 
of  the  others  observed  the  servant  make  his  way  among  the 
groups  of  seated  or  standing  people  and  go  to  the  outer 
door,  which  opened  upon  a  tiny  hallway.  The  song  came 
to  an  end,  and  everybody  was  cheering  and  applauding  and 
crying  "Bravo!"  or  "Bis!"  or  one  of  the  other  things  that 
people  shout  at  such  times,  when,  as  if  in  unexpected  answer 
to  the  outburst,  a  lady  appeared  between  the  yellow  por 
tieres  and  came  forward  a  little  way  into  the  room.  She 
was  a  tall  lady  of  an  extraordinary  and  immediately  notice 
able  grace  of  movement — a  lady  with  rather  fair  hair;  but  her 
eyebrows  and  eyelashes  had  been  stained  darker  than  it  was 
their  nature  to  be.  She  had  the  classic  Greek  type  of  face 
— and  figure,  too — all  but  the  eyes,  which  were  long  and  nar 
row — narrow,  perhaps,  from  a  habit  of  going  half  closed; 
and  when  they  were  a  little  more  than  half  closed  they  made 
a  straight  black  line  that  turned  up  very  slightly  at  the  outer 
end  with  an  Oriental  effect  which  went  oddly  in  that  classic 
face.  There  is  a  popular  piece  of  sculpture  now  in  the 
Luxembourg  Gallery  for  which  this  lady  "sat"  as  model  to 

124 


JASON 

a  great  artist.  Sculptors  from  all  over  the  world  go  there 
to  dream  over  its  perfect  line  and  contour,  and  little  school 
girls  pretend  not  to  see  it,  and  middle-aged  maiden  tourists, 
with  red  Baedekers  in  their  hands,  regard  it  furtively  and 
pass  on,  and  after  a  while  come  back  to  look  again. 

The  lady  was  dressed  in  some  very  close-clinging  ma 
terial  which  was  not  cloth  of  gold,  but  something  very  like 
it,  only  much  duller — something  which  gleamed  when  she 
stirred,  but  did  not  glitter — and  over  her  splendid  shoulders 
was  hung  an  Oriental  scarf  heavily  worked  with  metallic 
gold.  She  made  an  amazing  and  dramatic  picture  in  that 
golden  room.  It  was  as  if  she  had  known  just  what  her 
surroundings  would  be  and  had  dressed  expressly  for  them. 

The  applause  ceased  as  suddenly  as  if  it  had  been  trained 
to  break  off  at  a  signal,  and  the  lady  came  forward  a  little 
way,  smiling  a  quiet,  assured  smile.  At  each  step  her  knee 
threw  out  the  golden  stuff  of  her  gown  an  inch  or  two,  and 
it  flashed  suddenly — a  dull,  subdued  flash  in  the  overhead 
light — and  died  and  flashed  again.  A  few  of  the  people  in 
the  room  knew  who  the  lady  was,  and  they  looked  at  one 
another  with  raised  eyebrows  and  startled  faces;  but  the 
others  stared  at  her  with  an  eager  admiration,  thinking 
that  they  had  seldom  seen  anything  so  beautiful  or  so 
effective.  Ste.  Marie  sat  forward  on  the  edge  of  his  chair. 
His  eyes  sparkled,  and  he  gave  a  little  quick  sigh  of  pleas 
urable  excitement.  This  was  drama,  and  very  good  drama, 
too,  and  he  suspected  that  it  might  at  any  moment  turn 
into  a  tragedy. 

He  saw  Captain  Stewart,  who  had  been  among  a  group 
of  people  half-way  across  the  room,  turn  his  head  to  look 
when  the  cries  and  the  applause  ceased  so  suddenly,  and 
he  saw  the  man's  face  stiffen  by  swift  degrees,  all  the  joy- 

125 


JASON 

ous,  buoyant  life  gone  out  of  it,  until  it  was  yellow  and 
rigid  like  a  dead  man's  face;  and  Ste.  Marie,  out  of  his 
knowledge  of  the  relations  between  these  two  people, 
nodded,  en  connaisseur,  for  he  knew  that  the  man  was 
very  badly  frightened. 

So  the  host  of  the  evening  hung  back,  staring  for  what 
must  have  seemed  to  him  a  long  and  terrible  time,  though 
in  reality  it  was  but  an  instant;  then  he  came  forward 
quickly  to  greet  the  new-comer,  and  if  his  face  was  still 
yellow-white  there  was  nothing  in  his  manner  but  the 
courtesy  habitual  with  him.  He  took  the  lady's  hand,  and 
she  smiled  at  him,  but  her  eyes  did  not  smile — they  were 
hard.  Ste.  Marie,  who  was  the  nearest  of  the  others,  heard 
Captain  Stewart  say: 

"This  is  an  unexpected  pleasure,  my  dearest  Olga!" 

And  to  that  the  lady  replied,  more  loudly:  "Yes,  I  re 
turned  to  Paris  only  to-day.  You  didn't  know,  of  course. 
I  heard  you  were  entertaining  this  evening,  and  so  I  came, 
knowing  that  I  should  be  welcome." 

"Always!"  said  Captain  Stewart — "always  more  than 
welcome!" 

He  nodded  to  one  or  two  of  the  men  who  stood  near,  and 
when  they  approached  presented  them.  Ste.  Marie  observed 
that  he  used  the  lady's  true  name — she  had,  at  times,  found 
occasion  to  employ  others — and  that  he  politely  called  her 
"Madame  Nilssen"  instead  of  "Mademoiselle."  But  at 
that  moment  the  lady  caught  sight  of  Ste.  Marie,  and, 
crying  out  his  name  in  a  tone  of  delighted  astonishment, 
turned  away  from  the  other  men,  brushing  past  them  as  if 
they  had  been  furniture,  and  advanced  holding  out  both 
her  hands  in  greeting. 

"Dear  Ste.  Marie!"  she  exclaimed.  "Fancy  finding  you 

126 


JASON 

here!  I'm  so  glad!  Oh,  I'm  so  very  glad!  Take  me 
away  from  these  people!  Find  a  corner  where  we  can  talk. 
Ah,  there  is  one  with  a  big  seat!  Allons-y!" 

She  addressed  him  for  the  most  part  in  English,  which 
she  spoke  perfectly — as  perfectly  as  she  spoke  French  and 
German  and,  presumably,  her  native  tongue,  which  must 
have  been  Swedish. 

They  went  to  the  broad,  low  seat,  a  sort  of  hard-cushioned 
bench,  which  stood  against  one  of  the  walls,  and  made  them 
selves  comfortable  there  by  the  only  possible  means,  which, 
owing  to  the  width  of  the  thing,  was  to  sit  far  back  with 
their  feet  stuck  straight  out  before  them.  Captain  Stewart 
had  followed  them  across  the  room  and  showed  a  strong 
tendency  to  remain.  Ste.  Marie  observed  that  his  eyes 
were  hard  and  bright  and  very  alert,  and  that  there  were 
two  bright  spots  of  color  in  his  yellow  cheeks.  It  occurred 
to  Ste.  Marie  that  the  man  was  afraid  to  leave  him  alone 
with  Olga  Nilssen,  and  he  smiled  to  himself,  reflecting  that 
the  lady,  even  if  indiscreetly  inclined,  could  tell  him  noth 
ing — save  in  details — that  he  did  not  already  know.  But 
after  a  few  rather  awkward  moments  Mile.  Nilssen  waved 
an  irritated  hand. 

"Go  away!"  she  said  to  her  host.  "Go  away  to  your 
other  guests!  I  want  to  talk  to  Ste.  Marie.  We  have  old 
times  to  talk  over." 

And  after  hesitating  awhile  uneasily,  Captain  Stewart 
turned  back  into  the  room;  but  for  some  time  thereafter 
Ste.  Marie  was  aware  that  a  vigilant  eye  was  being  kept 
upon  them  and  that  their  host  was  by  no  means  at  his 
ease. 

When  they  were  left  alone  together  the  girl  turned  to 
him  and  patted  his  arm  affectionately.  She  said: 

127 


JASON 

"Ah,  but  it  is  very  good  to  see  you  again,  mon  cher  ami! 
It  has  been  so  long!"  She  gave  an  abrupt  frown.  "What 
are  you  doing  here  ?"  she  demanded. 

And  she  said  an  unkind  thing  about  her  fellow-guests. 
She  called  them  "canaille."  She  said: 

"Why  are  you  wasting  your  time  among  these  canaille  ? 
This  is  not  a  place  for  you.  Why  did  you  come  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  He  was  still  a  little 
resentful,  and  he  said  so.  He  said:  "I  didn't  know  it  was 
going  to  be  like  this.  I  came  because  Stewart  went  rather 
out  of  his  way  to  ask  me.  I'd  known  him  in  a  very  different 
milieu." 

"Ah,  yes!"  she  said,  reflectively.  "Yes,  he  does  go  into 
the  world  also,  doesn't  he  ?  But  this  is  what  he  likes,  you 
know."  Her  lips  drew  back  for  an  instant,  and  she  said: 
"He  is  a  pig-dog!" 

Ste.  Marie  looked  at  her  gravely.  She  had  used  that 
offensive  name  with  a  little  too  much  fierceness.  Her  face 
had  turned  for  an  instant  quite  white,  and  her  eyes  had 
flashed  out  over  the  room  a  look  that  meant  a  great  deal 
to  any  one  who  knew  her  as  well  as  Ste.  Marie  did.  He 
sat  forward  and  lowered  his  voice.  He  said: 

"Look  here,  Olga!  I'm  going  to  be  very  frank  for  a 
moment.  May  I  ?" 

For  just  an  instant  the  girl  drew  away  from  him  with 
suspicion  in  her  eyes,  and  something  else,  alertly  defiant. 
Then  she  put  out  her  hands  to  his  arm. 

"You  may  be  what  you  like,  dear  Ste.  Marie,"  she  said, 
"and  say  what  you  like.  I  will  take  it  all — and  swallow 
it  alive — good  as  gold.  What  are  you  going  to  do  to 
me?" 

"I've  always  been  fair  with  you,  haven't  I?"  he  urged. 

128 


JASON 

"I've  had  disagreeable  things  to  say  or  do,  but — you  knew 
always  that  I  liked  you  and — where  my  sympathies 
were." 

"Always!  Always,  mon  cher!"  she  cried.  "I  trusted 
you  always  in  everything.  And  there  is  no  one  else  I 
trust.  No  one!  No  one! — Ste.  Marie!" 

"What  then?"  he  asked. 

"Ste.  Marie,"  she  said,  "why  did  you  never  fall  in  love 
with  me,  as  the  other  men  did  ?" 

"I  wonder!"  said  he.  "I  don't  know.  Upon  my  word, 
I  really  don't  know." 

He  was  so  serious  about  it  that  the  girl  burst  into  a 
shriek  of  laughter.  And  in  the  end  he  laughed,  too. 

"I  expect  it  was  because  I  liked  you  too  well,"  he  said, 
at  last.  "But  come!  We're  forgetting  my  lecture.  Listen 
to  your  grandpere  Ste.  Marie!  I  have  heard  —  certain 
things — rumors — what  you  will.  Perhaps  they  are  foolish 
lies,  and  I  hope  they  are.  But  if  not,  if  the  fear  I  saw 
in  Stewart's  face  when  you  came  here  to-night,  was — not 
without  cause,  let  me  beg  you  to  have  a  care.  You're 
much  too  savage,  my  dear  child.  Don't  be  so  foolish  as 
to — well,  turn  comedy  into  the  other  thing.  In  the  first 
place,  it's  not  worth  while,  and,  in  the  second  place,  it  re 
coils  always.  Revenge  may  be  sweet.  I  don't  know.  But 
nowadays,  with  police  courts  and  all  that,  it  entails  much 
more  subsequent  annoyance  than  it  is  worth.  Be  wise, 
Olga!" 

"Some  things,  Ste.  Marie,"  said  the  golden  lady,  "are 
worth  all  the  consequences  that  may  follow  them." 

She  watched  Captain  Stewart  across  the  room,  where  he 
stood  chatting  with  a  little  group  of  people,  and  her  beau 
tiful  face  was  as  hard  as  marble  and  her  eyes  were  as  dark 

129 


JASON 

as  a  stormy  night,  and  her  mouth,  for  an  instant,  was  al 
most  like  an  animal's  mouth — cruel  and  relentless. 

Ste.  Marie  saw,  and  he  began  to  be  a  bit  alarmed  in 
good  earnest.  In  his  warning  he  had  spoken  rather  more 
seriously  than  he  felt  the  occasion  demanded,  but  he  began 
at  last  to  wonder  if  the  occasion  was  not  in  reality  very 
serious,  indeed.  He  was  sure,  of  course,  that  Olga  Nilssen 
had  come  here  on  this  evening  to  annoy  Captain  Stewart 
in  some  fashion.  As  he  put  it  to  himself,  she  probably 
meant  to  "make  a  row,"  and  he  would  not  have  been  in 
the  least  surprised  if  she  had  made  it  in  the  beginning,  upon 
her  very  dramatic  entrance.  Nothing  more  calamitous 
than  that  had  occurred  to  him.  But  when  he  saw  the 
woman's  face  turned  a  little  away  and  gazing  fixedly  at 
Captain  Stewart,  he  began  to  be  aware  that  there  was 
tragedy  very  near  him — or  all  the  makings  of  it. 

Mile.  Nilssen  turned  back  to  him.  Her  face  was  still 
hard,  and  her  eyes  dark  and  narrowed  with  their  oddly 
Oriental  look.  She  bent  her  shoulders  together  for  an  in 
stant  and  her  hands  moved  slowly  in  her  lap,  stretching  out 
before  her  in  a  gesture  very  like  a  cat's  when  it  wakes 
from  sleep  and  yawns  and  extends  its  claws,  as  if  to  make 
sure  that  they  are  still  there  and  ready  for  use. 

"I  feel  a  little  like  Samson  to-night,"  she  said.  "I  am 
tired  of  almost  everything,  and  I  should  like  very  much  to 
pull  the  world  down  on  top  of  me  and  kill  everybody  in 
it  —  except  you,  Ste.  Marie,  dear;  except  you!  —  and  be 
crushed  under  the  ruins!" 

"I  think,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  practically — and  the  speech 
sounded  rather  like  one  of  Hartley's  speeches — "  I  think  it 
was  not  quite  the  world  that  Samson  pulled  down,  but  a 
temple — or  a  palace — something  of  that  kind." 

130 


JASON 

"Well,"  said  the  golden  lady,  "this  place  is  rather  like 
a  temple — a  Chinese  temple,  with  the  pig-dog  for  high- 
priest." 

Ste.  Marie  frowned  at  her. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  he  demanded,  sharply. 
"What  did  you  come  here  to  do  ?  Mischief  of  some  kind — 
bien  entendu — but  what  ?" 

"Do  ?"  she  said,  looking  at  him  with  her  narrowed  eyes. 
"I?  Why,  what  should  I  do?  Nothing,  of  course!  I 
merely  said  I  should  like  to  pull  the  place  down.  Of 
course,  I  couldn't  do  that  quite  literally,  now,  could  I  ?  No. 
It  is  merely  a  mood.  I'm  not  going  to  do  anything." 

"You're  not  being  honest  with  me,"  he  said. 

And  at  that  her  expression  changed,  and  she  patted  his 
arm  again  with  a  gesture  that  seemed  to  beg  forgive 
ness. 

"Well,  then,"  she  said,  "if  you  must  know,  maybe  I  did 
come  here  for  a  purpose.  I  want  to  have  it  out  with 
our  friend  Captain  Stewart  about  something.  And  Ste. 
Marie,  dear,"  she  pleaded,  "please,  I  think  you'd  better 
go  home  first.  I  don't  care  about  these  other  animals,  but 
I  don't  want  you  dragged  into  any  row  of  any  sort.  Please 
be  a  sweet  Ste.  Marie  and  go  home.  Yes  ?" 

"Absolutely,  no!"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "I  shall  stay,  and 
I  shall  try  my  utmost  to  prevent  you  from  doing  anything 
foolish.  Understand  that!  If  you  want  to  have  rows  with 
people,  Olga,  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  pick  an  occasion  like 
this  for  the  purpose.  Have  your  rows  in  private!" 

"I  rather  think  I  enjoy  an  audience,"  she  said,  with  a 
reflective  air,  and  Ste.  Marie  laughed  aloud  because  he 
knew  that  the  naive  speech  was  so  very  true.  This  lady, 
with  her  many  good  qualities  and  her  bad  ones — not  a 


JASON 

few,  alas! — had  an  undeniable  passion  for  red  fire  that  had 
amused  him  very  much  on  more  than  one  past  occasion. 

"Please  go  home!"  she  said  once  more. 

But  when  the  man  only  shook  his  head,  she  raised  her 
hands  a  little  way  and  dropped  them  again  in  her  lap,  in 
an  odd  gesture  which  seemed  to  say  that  she  had  done  all 
she  could  do,  and  that  if  anything  disagreeable  should 
happen  now,  and  he  should  be  involved  in  it,  it  would  be 
entirely  his  fault  because  she  had  warned  him. 

Then  quite  abruptly  a  mood  of  irresponsible  gayety 
seemed  to  come  upon  her.  She  refused  to  have  anything 
more  to  do  with  serious  topics,  and  when  Ste.  Marie  at 
tempted  to  introduce  them  she  laughed  in  his  face.  As 
she  had  said  in  the  beginning  she  wished  to  do,  she  harked 
back  to  old  days  (the  earlier  stages  of  what  might  be  termed 
the  Morrison  regime),  and  it  seemed  to  afford  her  great 
delight  to  recall  the  happenings  of  that  epoch.  The  con 
versation  became  a  dialogue  of  reminiscence  which  would 
have  been  entirely  unintelligible  to  a  third  person,  and  was, 
indeed,  so  to  Captain  Stewart,  who  once  came  across  the 
room,  made  a  feeble  effort  to  attach  himself,  and  presently 
wandered  away  again. 

They  unearthed  from  the  past  an  exceedingly  foolish 
song  all  about  one  "Little  Willie"  and  a  purple  monkey 
climbing  up  a  yellow  stick.  It  was  set  to  a  well-known  air 
from  Don  Giovanni,  and  when  Duval,  the  basso,  heard 
them  singing  it  he  came  up  and  insisted  upon  knowing 
what  it  was  about.  He  laughed  immoderately  over  the 
English  words  when  he  was  told  what  they  meant,  and 
made  Ste.  Marie  write  them  down  for  him  on  two  visiting- 
cards.  So  they  made  a  trio  out  of  "  Little  Willie,"  the  great 
Duval  inventing  a  bass  part  quite  marvellous  in  its  in- 

132 


JASON 

genuity,  and  they  were  compelled  to  sing  it  over  and  over 
again,  until  Ste.  Marie's  falsetto  imitation  of  a  tenor  voice 
cracked  and  gave  out  altogether,  since  he  was  by  nature 
barytone,  if  anything  at  all. 

The  other  guests  had  crowded  round  to  hear  the  ex 
traordinary  song,  and  when  the  song  was  at  last  finished 
several  of  them  remained,  so  that  Ste.  Marie  saw  he  was  to 
be  allowed  an  uninterrupted  tete-a-tete  with  Olga  Nilssen 
no  longer.  He  therefore  drifted  away,  after  a  few  moments, 
and  went  with  Duval  and  one  of  the  other  men  across  the 
room  to  look  at  some  small  jade  objects — snuff-bottles, 
bracelets,  buckles,  and  the  like — which  were  displayed  in 
a  cabinet  cleverly  reconstructed  out  of  a  Japanese  shrine. 
It  was  perhaps  ten  minutes  later  when  he  looked  round  the 
place  and  discovered  that  neither  Mile.  Nilssen  nor  Captain 
Stewart  was  to  be  seen. 

His  first  thought  was  of  relief,  for  he  said  to  himself  that 
the  two  had  sensibly  gone  into  one  of  the  other  rooms  to 
"have  it  out"  in  peace  and  quiet.  But  following  that 
came  the  recollection  of  the  woman's  face  when  she  had 
watched  her  host  across  the  room.  Her  words  came  back 
to  him:  "I  feel  a  little  like  Samson  to-night.  ...  I  should 
like  very  much  to  pull  the  world  down  on  top  of  me  and 
kill  everybody  in  it!"  Ste.  Marie  thought  of  these  things, 
and  he  began  to  be  uncomfortable.  He  found  himself 
watching  the  yellow-hung  doorway  beyond,  with  its  intri 
cate  Chinese  carving  of  trees  and  rocks  and  little  groups 
of  immortals,  and  he  found  that  unconsciously  he  was  lis 
tening  for  something — he  did  not  know  what — above  the 
chatter  and  laughter  of  the  people  in  the  room.  He  en 
dured  this  for  possibly  five  minutes,  and  all  at  once  found 
that  he  could  endure  it  no  longer.  He  began  to  make  his 


JASON 

way  quietly  through  the  groups  of  people  toward  the  cur 
tained  doorway. 

As  he  went,  one  of  the  women  near  by  complained  in  a 
loud  tone  that  the  servant  had  disappeared.  She  wanted, 
it  seemed,  a  glass  of  water,  having  already  had  many  glasses 
of  more  interesting  things.  Ste.  Marie  said  he  would  get 
it  for  her,  and  went  on  his  way.  He  had  an  excuse  now. 

He  found  himself  in  a  square,  dimly  lighted  room  much 
smaller  than  the  other.  There  was  a  round  table  in  the 
centre,  so  he  thought  it  must  be  Stewart's  dining-room. 
At  the  left  a  doorway  opened  into  a  place  where  there  were 
lights,  and  at  the  other  side  was  another  door  closed.  From 
the  room  at  the  left  there  came  a  sound  of  voices,  and  though 
they  were  not  loud,  one  of  them,  Mile.  Olga  Nilssen's  voice, 
was  hard  and  angry  and  not  altogether  under  control.  The 
man  would  seem  to  have  been  attempting  to  pacify  her, 
and  he  would  seem  not  to  have  been  very  successful. 

The  first  words  that  Ste.  Marie  was  able  to  distinguish 
were  from  the  woman.  She  said,  in  a  low,  fierce  tone: 

"That  is  a  lie,  my  friend!  That  is  a  lie!  I  know  all 
about  the  road  to  Clamart,  so  you  needn't  lie  to  me  any 
longer.  It's  no  good." 

She  paused  for  just  an  instant  there,  and  in  the  pause 
St.  Marie  heard  Stewart  give  a  sort  of  inarticulate  ex 
clamation.  It  seemed  to  express  anger  and  it  seemed 
also  to  express  fear.  But  the  woman  swept  on,  and  her 
voice  began  to  be  louder.  She  said: 

"I've  given  you  your  chance.  You  didn't  deserve  it, 
but  I've  given  it  you — and  you've  told  me  nothing  but  lies. 
Well,  you'll  lie  no  more.  This  ends  it." 

Upon  that  Ste.  Marie  heard  a  sudden  stumbling  shuffle 
of  feet  and  a  low,  hoarse  cry  of  utter  terror — a  cry  more 

134 


CAPTAIN     STEWART     LAY     HUDDLED     AND     WRITHING     UPON 
THE    FLOOR 


JASON 

animal-like  than  human.  He  heard  the  cry  break  off 
abruptly  in  something  that  was  like  a  cough  and  a  whine 
together,  and  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  heavy  body  falling 
with  a  loose  rattle  upon  the  floor. 

With  the  sound  of  that  falling  body  he  had  already 
reached  the  doorway  and  torn  aside  the  heavy  portiere.  It 
was  a  sleeping-room  he  looked  into,  a  room  of  medium 
size  with  two  windows  and  an  ornate  bed  of  the  Empire 
style  set  sidewise  against  the  farther  wall.  There  were 
electric  lights  upon  imitation  candles  which  were  grouped 
in  sconces  against  the  wall,  and  these  were  turned  on,  so 
that  the  room  was  brightly  illuminated.  Midway  between 
the  door  and  the  ornate  Empire  bed  Captain  Stewart  lay 
huddled  and  writhing  upon  the  floor,  and  Olga  Nilssen 
stood  upright  beside  him,  gazing  down  upon  him  quite 
calmly.  In  her  right  hand,  which  hung  at  her  side,  she 
held  a  little  flat  black  automatic  pistol  of  the  type  known 
as  Brownings — and  they  look  like  toys,  but  they  are  not. 

Ste.  Marie  sprang  at  her  silently  and  caught  her  by  the 
arm,  twisting  the  automatic  pistol  from  her  grasp,  and  the 
woman  made  no  effort  whatever  to  resist  him.  She  looked 
into  his  face  quite  frankly  and  unmoved,  and  she  shook  her 
head. 

"I  haven't  harmed  him,"  she  said.  "I  was  going  to, 
yes — and  then  myself — but  he  didn't  give  me  a  chance. 
He  fell  down  in  a  fit."  She  nodded  down  toward  the 
man  who  lay  writhing  at  their  feet.  "I  frightened  him," 
she  said,  "and  he  fell  in  a  fit.  He's  an  epileptic,  you 
know.  Didn't  you  know  that  ?  Oh  yes." 

Abruptly  she  turned  away  shivering,  and  put  up  her 
hands  over  her  face.  And  she  gave  an  exclamation  of  un 
controllable  repulsion. 

135 


JASON 

"Ugh!"  she  cried,  "it's  horrible!  Horrible!  I  can't 
bear  to  look.  I  saw  him  in  a  fit  once  before — long  ago — 
and  I  couldn't  bear  even  to  speak  to  him  for  a  month.  I 
thought  he  had  been  cured.  He  said —  Ah,  it's  horrible!" 

Ste.  Marie  had  dropped  upon  his  knees  beside  the  fallen 
man,  and  Mile.  Nilssen  said,  over  her  shoulder: 

"Hold  his  head  up  from  the  floor,  if  you  can  bear  to. 
He  might  hurt  it." 

It  was  not  an  easy  thing  to  do,  for  Ste.  Marie  had  the 
natural  sense  of  repulsion  in  such  matters  that  most  peo 
ple  have,  and  this  man's  appearance,  as  Olga  Nilssen  had 
said,  was  horrible.  The  face  was  drawn  hideously,  and 
in  the  strong,  clear  light  of  the  electrics  it  was  a  deathly 
yellow.  The  eyes  were  half  closed,  and  the  eyeballs  turned 
up  so  that  only  the  whites  of  them  showed  between  the 
lids.  There  was  froth  upon  the  distorted  mouth,  and  it 
clung  to  the  catlike  mustache  and  to  the  shallow,  sunken 
chin  beneath.  But  Ste.  Marie  exerted  all  his  will  power, 
and  took  the  jerking,  trembling  head  in  his  hands,  holding 
it  clear  of  the  floor. 

"You'd  better  call  the  servant,"  he  said.  "There  may 
be  something  that  can  be  done." 

But  the  woman  answered,  without  looking: 

"No,  there's  nothing  that  can  be  done,  I  believe,  except 
to  keep  him  from  bruising  himself.  Stimulants — that  sort 
of  thing — do  more  harm  than  good.  Could  you  get  him  on 
the  bed  here  ?" 

"  Together  we  might  manage  it,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "  Come 
and  help!" 

"I  can't!"  she  cried,  nervously.  "I  can't — touch  him. 
Please,  I  can't  do  it." 

"Come!"  said  the  man,  in  a  sharp  tone.     "It's  no  time 

136 


JASON 

for  nerves.  I  don't  like  it,  either,  but  it's  got  to  be 
done." 

The  woman  began  a  half-hysterical  sobbing,  but  after 
a  moment  she  turned  and  came  with  slow  feet  to  where 
Stewart  lay. 

Ste.  Marie  slipped  his  arms  under  the  man's  body  and 
began  to  raise  him  from  the  floor. 

"You  needn't  help,  after  all,"  he  said.  "He's  not 
heavy." 

And,  indeed,  under  his  skilfully  shaped  and  padded 
clothes  the  man  was  a  mere  waif  of  a  man — as  unbelievably 
slight  as  if  he  were  the  victim  of  a  wasting  disease.  Ste. 
Marie  held  the  body  in  his  arms  as  if  it  had  been  a  child, 
and  carried  it  across  and  laid  it  on  the  bed;  but  it  was 
many  months  before  he  forgot  the  horror  of  that  awful 
thing  shaking  and  twitching  in  his  hold,  the  head  thumping 
hideously  upon  his  shoulder,  the  arms  and  legs  beating 
against  him.  It  was  the  most  difficult  task  he  had  ever 
had  to  perform.  He  laid  Captain  Stewart  upon  the  bed 
and  straightened  the  helpless  limbs  as  best  he  could. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  rising  again — "I  suppose  when  the 
man  comes  out  of  this  he'll  be  frightfully  exhausted  and 
drop  off  to  sleep,  won't  he  ?  We'll  have  to — " 

He  halted  abruptly  there,  and  for  a  single  swift  instant 
he  felt  the  black  and  rushing  sensation  of  one  who  is  going 
to  faint  away.  The  wall  behind  the  ornate  Empire  bed 
was  covered  with  photographs,  some  in  frames,  others  left, 
as  they  had  been  received,  upon  the  large  squares  of  weird 
cardboard  which  are  termed  "art  mounts." 

"Come  here  a  moment,  quickly!"  said  Ste.  Marie,  in  a 
sharp  voice. 

Mile.  Nilssen's  sobs  had  died  down  to  a  silent,  spasmodic 

137 


JASON 

catching  of  the  breath,  but  she  was  still  much  unnerved, 
and  she  approached  the  bed  with  obvious  unwillingness, 
dabbing  at  her  eyes  with  a  handkerchief.  Ste.  Marie  point 
ed  to  an  unframed  photograph  which  was  fastened  to  the 
wall  by  thumb-tacks,  and  his  outstretched  hand  shook 
as  he  pointed.  Beneath  them  the  other  man  still  writhed 
and  tumbled  in  his  epileptic  fit. 

"Do  you  know  who  that  woman  is?"  demanded  Ste. 
Marie,  and  his  tone  was  such  that  Olga  Nilssen  turned 
slowly  and  stared  at  him. 

"That  woman,"  said  she,  "is  the  reason  why  I  wished 
to  pull  the  world  down  upon  Charlie  Stewart  and  me  to 
night.  That's  who  she  is." 

Ste.  Marie  gave  a  sort  of  cry. 

"Who  is  she?"  he  insisted.  "What  is  her  name?  I — 
have  a  particularly  important  reason  for  wanting  to  know. 
I've  got  to  know." 

Mile.  Nilssen  shook  her  head,  still  staring  at  him. 

"I  can't  tell  you  that,"  said  she.  "I  don't  know  the 
name.  I  only  know  that — when  he  met  her,  he —  I  don't 
know  her  name,  but  I  know  where  she  lives  and  where  he 
goes  every  day  to  see  her — a  house  with  a  big  garden  and 
walled  park  on  the  road  to  Clamart.  It's  on  the  edge  of 
the  wood,  not  far  from  Fort  d'Issy.  The  Clamart- Vanves- 
Issy  tram  runs  past  the  wall  of  one  side  of  the  park.  That's 
all  I  know." 

Ste.  Marie  clasped  his  head  with  his  hands. 

"So  near  to  it!"  he  groaned,  "and  yet —  Ah!"  He  bent 
forward  suddenly  over  the  bed  and  spelled  out  the  name 
of  the  photographer  which  was  pencilled  upon  the  brown 
cardboard  mount.  "There's  still  a  chance,"  he  said. 
"There's  still  one  chance." 

138 


JASON 

He  became  aware  that  the  woman  was  watching  him 
curiously,  and  nodded  to  her. 

"It's  something  you  don't  know  about,"  he  explained. 
"I've  got  to  find  out  who  this — girl  is.  Perhaps  the  pho 
tographer  can  help  me.  I  used  to  know  him."  All  at  once 
his  eyes  sharpened.  "Tell  me  the  simple  truth  about 
something!"  said  he.  "If  ever  we  have  been  friends,  if 
you  owe  me  any  good  office,  tell  me  this:  Do  you  know 
anything  about  young  Arthur  Benham's  disappearance 
two  months  ago,  or  about  what  has  become  of  him  ?" 

Again  the  woman  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  said  she.  "Nothing  at  all.  I  hadn't  even  heard 
of  it.  Young  Arthur  Benham!  I've  met  him  once  or 
twice.  I  wonder — I  wonder  Stewart  never  spoke  to  me 
about  his  disappearance!  That's  very  odd." 

"Yes,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  absently,  "it  is."  He  gave 
a  little  sigh.  "I  wonder  about  a  good  many  things," 
said  he. 

He  glanced  down  upon  the  bed  before  them,  and  Captain 
Stewart  lay  still,  save  for  a  slight  twitching  of  the  hands. 
Once  he  moved  his  head  restlessly  from  side  to  side  and 
said  something  incoherent  in  a  weak  murmur. 

"He's  out  of  it,"  said  Olga  Nilssen.  "He'll  sleep  now, 
I  think.  I  suppose  we  must  get  rid  of  those  people  and 
then  leave  him  to  the  care  of  his  man.  A  doctor  couldn't 
do  anything  for  him." 

"Yes,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  nodding,  "I'll  call  the  servant 
and  tell  the  people  that  Stewart  has  been  taken  ill." 

He  looked  once  more  toward  the  photograph  on  the  wall, 
and  under  his  breath  he  said,  with  an  odd,  defiant  fierce 
ness:"!  won't  believe  it!"  But  he  did  not  explain  what 
he  wouldn't  believe.  He  started  out  of  the  room,  but,  half- 

139 


JASON 

way,  halted  and  turned  back.  He  looked  Olga  Nilssen  full 
in  the  eyes,  saying: 

"It  is  safe  to  leave  you  here  with  him  while  I  call  the 
servant  ?  There'll  be  no  more —  ?" 

But  the  woman  gave  a  low  cry  and  a  violent  shiver 
with  it. 

"You  need  have  no  fear,"  she  said.  "I've  no  desire 
now  to — harm  him.  The — reason  is  gone.  This  has 
cured  me.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  never  bear  to  see  him 
again.  Oh,  hurry!  Please  hurry!  I  want  to  get  away 
from  here!" 

Ste.  Marie  nodded,  and  went  out  of  the  room. 


XII 


THE    NAME    OF   THE    LADY   WITH   THE    EYES — EVIDENCE 
HEAPS   UP    SWIFTLY 

STE.  MARIE  drove  home  to  the  rue  d'Assas  with 
his  head  in  a  whirl,  and  with  a  sense  of  great  excite 
ment  beating  somewhere  within  him — probably  in  the  place 
where  his  heart  ought  to  be.  He  had  a  curiously  sure  feel 
ing  that  at  last  his  feet  were  upon  the  right  path.  He  could 
not  have  explained  this  to  himself — indeed,  there  was  noth 
ing  to  explain,  and  if  there  had  been  he  was  in  far  too 
great  an  inner  turmoil  to  manage  it.  It  was  a  mere  feel 
ing — the  sort  of  thing  which  he  had  once  tried  to  express 
to  Captain  Stewart  and  had  got  laughed  at  for  his  pains. 
There  was,  in  sober  fact,  no  reason  whatever  why  Cap 
tain  Stewart's  possession  of  a  photograph  of  the  beautiful 
lady  whom  Ste.  Marie  had  once  seen  in  company  with 
O'Hara  should  be  taken  as  significant  of  anything  except 
an  appreciation  of  beauty  on  the  part  of  Miss  Benham's 
uncle — not  even  if,  as  Mile.  Nilssen  believed,  Captain 
Stewart  was  in  love  with  the  lady.  But  to  Ste.  Marie,  in 
his  whirl  of  reawakened  excitement,  the  discovery  loomed 
to  the  skies,  and  in  a  series  of  ingenious  but  very  vague 
leaps  of  the  imagination  he  saw  himself,  with  the  aid  of 
this  new  evidence  (which  was  no  evidence  at  all,  if  he  had 
been  calm  enough  to  realize  it),  victorious  in  his  great 

141 


JASON 

quest:  leading  young  Arthur  Benham  back  to  the  arms  of 
an  ecstatic  family,  and  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  that  youth's 
sister  to  claim  his  reward.  All  of  which  seems  a  rather 
startling  flight  of  the  imagination  to  have  had  its  beginning 
in  the  sight  of  one  photograph  of  a  young  woman.  But, 
then,  Ste.  Marie  was  imaginative  if  he  was  anything. 

He  fell  to  thinking  of  this  girl  whose  eyes,  after  one  sight 
of  them,  had  so  long  haunted  him.  He  thought  of  her 
between  those  two  men,  the  hard-faced  Irish  adventurer, 
and  the  other,  Stewart,  strange  compound  of  intellectual 
and  voluptuary,  and  his  eyes  flashed  in  the  dark  and  he 
gripped  his  hands  together  upon  his  knees.  He  said  again: 

"I  won't  believe  it!  I  won't  believe  it!"  Believe  what  ? 
one  wonders. 

He  slept  hardly  at  all :  only,  toward  morning,  falling  into 
an  uneasy  doze.  And  in  the  doze  he  dreamed  once  more 
the  dream  of  the  dim,  waste  place  and  the  hill,  and  the  eyes 
and  voice  that  called  him  back — because  they  needed  him. 

As  early  as  he  dared,  after  his  morning  coffee,  he  took  a 
fiacre  and  drove  across  the  river  to  the  Boulevard  de  la 
Madeleine,  where  he  climbed  a  certain  stair,  at  the  foot  of 
which  were  two  glass  cases  containing  photographs  of,  for 
the  most  part,  well-known  ladies  of  the  Parisian  stage. 
At  the  top  of  the  stair  he  entered  the  reception-room  of  a 
young  photographer  who  is  famous  now  the  world  over, 
but  who,  at  the  beginning  of  his  career,  when  he  had  noth 
ing  but  talent  and  no  acquaintance,  owed  certain  of  his 
most  important  commissions  to  M.  Ste.  Marie. 

The  man,  whose  name  was  Bernstein,  came  forward 
eagerly  from  the  studio  beyond  to  greet  his  visitor,  and 
Ste.  Marie  complimented  him  chaffingly  upon  his  very 
sleek  and  prosperous  appearance,  and  upon  the  new  decora- 

142 


JASON 

tions  of  the  little  salon,  which  were,  in  truth,  excellently 
well  judged.  But  after  they  had  talked  for  a  little  while 
of  such  matters,  he  said: 

"I  want  to  know  if  you  keep  specimen  prints  of  all  the 
photographs  you  have  made  within  the  past  few  months, 
and,  if  so,  I  should  like  to  see  them." 

The  young  Jew  went  to  a  wooden  portfolio-holder  which 
stood  in  a  corner,  and  dragged  it  out  into  the  light. 

"I  have  them  all  here,"  said  he — "everything  that  I  have 
made  within  the  past  ten  or  twelve  months.  If  you  will 
let  me  draw  up  a  chair  you  can  look  them  over  comfort 
ably." 

He  glanced  at  his  former  patron  with  a  little  polite 
curiosity  as  Ste.  Marie  followed  his  suggestion,  and  began 
to  turn  over  the  big  portfolio's  contents;  but  he  did  not 
show  any  surprise  nor  ask  questions.  Indeed,  he  guessed, 
to  a  certain  extent,  rather  near  the  truth  of  the  matter. 
It  had  happened  before  that  young  gentlemen — and  old 
ones,  too — wanted  to  look  over  his  prints  without  offering 
explanations,  and  they  generally  picked  out  all  the  photo 
graphs  there  were  of  some  particular  lady  and  bought 
them  if  they  could  be  bought. 

So  he  was  by  no  means  astonished  on  this  occasion,  and 
he  moved  about  the  room  putting  things  to  rights,  and  even 
went  for  a  few  moments  into  the  studio  beyond  until  he 
was  recalled  by  a  sudden  exclamation  from  his  visitor — an 
exclamation  which  had  a  sound  of  mingled  delight  and 
excitement. 

Ste.  Marie  held  in  his  hands  a  large  photograph,  and  he 
turned  it  toward  the  man  who  had  made  it. 

"I  am  going  to  ask  you  some  questions,"  said  he,  "that 
will  sound  rather  indiscreet  and  irregular,  but  I  beg  you 

H3 


JASON 

to  answer  them  if  you  can,  because  the  matter  is  of  great 
importance  to  a  number  of  people.  Do  you  remember 
this  lady?" 

"Oh  yes,"  said  the  Jew,  readily,  "I  remember  her  very 
well.  I  never  forget  people  who  are  as  beautiful  as  this 
lady  was."  His  eyes  gleamed  with  retrospective  joy. 
"She  was  splendid!"  he  declared.  "Sumptuous!  No,  I 
cannot  describe  her.  I  have  not  the  words.  And  I  could 
not  photograph  her  with  any  justice,  either.  She  was  all 
color:  brown  skin,  with  a  dull-red  stain  under  the  cheeks, 
and  a  great  mass  of  hair  that  was  not  black  but  very  nearly 
black — except  in  the  sun,  and  then  there  were  red  lights  in 
it.  She  was  a  goddess,  that  lady,  a  queen  of  goddesses — 
the  young  Juno  before  marriage — the — " 

"Yes,"  interrupted  Ste.  Marie — "yes,  I  see.  Yes,  quite 
evidently  she  was  beautiful;  but  what  I  wanted  in  particular 
to  know  was  her  name,  if  you  feel  that  you  have  a  right  to 
give  it  to  me  (I  remind  you  again  that  the  matter  is  very 
important),  and  any  circumstances  that  you  can  remember 
about  her  coming  here:  who  came  with  her,  for  instance 
and  things  of  that  sort." 

The  photographer  looked  a  little  disappointed  at  being 
cut  off  in  the  middle  of  his  rhapsody,  but  he  began  turning 
over  the  leaves  of  an  order-book  which  lay  upon  a  table 
near  by. 

"Here  is  the  entry,"  he  said,  after  a  few  moments. 
"Yes,  I  thought  so,  the  date  was  nearly  three  months  ago — 
April  5th.  And  the  lady's  name  was  Mile.  Coira  O'Hara." 

"What!"  cried  the  other  man,  sharply.  "What  did  you 
say  ?" 

"Mile.  Coira  O'Hara  was  the  name,"  repeated  the 
photographer.  "I  remember  the  occasion  perfectly.  The 

144 


JASON 

lady  came  here  with  three  gentlemen — one  tall,  thin  gentle 
man  with  an  eyeglass,  an  Englishman,  I  think,  though  he 
spoke  very  excellent  French  when  he  spoke  to  me.  Among 
themselves  they  spoke,  I  think,  English,  though  I  do  not 
understand  it,  except  a  few  words,  such  as  "ow  moch  ?' 
and  'sank  you'  and  'rady,  pleas',  now.'" 

"Yes!  yes!"  cried  Ste.  Marie,  impatiently.  And  the  lit 
tle  Jew  could  see  that  he  was  laboring  under  some  very 
strong  excitement,  and  he  wondered  mildly  about  it,  scent 
ing  a  love-affair. 

"Then,"  he  pursued,  "there  was  a  very  young  man  in 
strange  clothes — a  tourist,  I  should  think,  like  those  Ameri 
cans  and  English  who  come  in  the  summer  with  little  red 
books  and  sit  on  the  terrace  of  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix."  He 
heard  his  visitor  draw  a  swift,  sharp  breath  at  that,  but  he 
hurried  on  before  he  could  be  interrupted.  "This  young 
man  seemed  to  be  unable  to  take  his  eyes  from  the  lady — 
and  small  wonder!  He  was  very  much  epris — very  much 
epris,  indeed.  Never  have  I  seen  a  youth  more  so.  Ah,  it 
was  something  to  see,  that — a  thing  to  touch  the  heart!" 

"What  did  the  young  man  look  like?"  demanded  Ste. 
Marie. 

The  photographer  described  the  youth  as  best  he  could 
from  memory,  and  he  saw  his  visitor  nod  once  or  twice,  and 
at  the  end  he  said: 

"Yes,  yes;    I  thought  so.     Thank  you." 

The  Jew  did  not  know  what  it  was  the  other  thought,  but 
he  went  on: 

"Ah,  a  thing  to  touch  the  heart!  Such  devotion  as 
that!  Alas,  that  the  lady  should  seem  so  cold  to  it!  Still, 
a  goddess!  What  would  you  ?  A  queen  among  goddesses. 
One  would  not  have  them  laugh  and  make  little  jokes — 

H5 


JASON 

make  eyes  at  love-sick  boys.  No,  indeed!"  He  shook  his 
head  rapidly  and  sighed. 

M.  Ste.  Marie  was  silent  for  a  little  space,  but  at  length 
he  looked  up  as  if  he  had  just  remembered  something. 

"And  the  third  man?"  he  asked. 

"Ah,  yes,  the  third  gentleman,"  said  Bernstein.  "I 
had  forgotten  him.  The  third  gentleman  I  knew  well.  He 
had  often  been  here.  It  was  he  who  brought  these  friends 
to  me.  He  was  M.  le  Capitaine  Stewart.  Everybody  knows 
M.  le  Capitaine  Stewart — everybody  in  Paris." 

Again  he  observed  that  his  visitor  drew  a  little,  swift, 
sharp  breath,  and  that  he  seemed  to  be  laboring  under  some 
excitement. 

However,  Ste.  Marie  did  not  question  him  further,  and  so 
he  went  on  to  tell  the  little  more  he  knew  of  the  matter — 
how  the  four  people  had  remained  for  an  hour  or  more, 
trying  many  poses;  how  they  had  returned,  all  but  the  tall 
gentleman,  three  days  later  to  see  the  proofs  and  to  order 
certain  ones  to  be  printed  (the  young  man  paying  on  the 
spot  in  advance),  and  how  the  finished  prints  had  been  sent 
to  M.  le  Capitaine  Stewart's  address. 

When  he  had  finished,  his  visitor  sat  for  a  long  time  silent, 
his  head  bent  a  little,  frowning  upon  the  floor  and  chafing 
his  hands  together  over  his  knees.  But  at  last  he  rose 
rather  abruptly.  He  said: 

"Thank  you  very  much,  indeed.  You  have  done  me  a 
great  service.  If  ever  I  can  repay  it,  command  me.  Thank 
you!" 

The  Jew  protested,  smiling,  that  he  was  still  too  deeply 
in  debt  to  M.  Ste.  Marie,  and  so,  politely  wrangling,  they 
reached  the  door,  and  with  a  last  expression  of  gratitude 
the  visitor  departed  down  the  stair.  A  client  came  in  just 

146 


JASON 

then  for  a  sitting,  and  so  the  little  photographer  did  not 
have  an  opportunity  to  wonder  over  the  rather  odd  affair 
as  much  as  he  might  have  done.  Indeed,  in  the  press  of 
work,  it  slipped  from  his  mind  altogether. 

But  down  in  the  busy  boulevard  Ste.  Marie  stood  hesitat 
ing  on  the  curb.  There  were  so  many  things  to  be  done, 
in  the  light  of  these  new  developments,  that  he  did  not 
know  what  to  do  first. 

"Mile.  Coira  O'Hara!  —  Mademoiselle!"  The  thought 
gave  him  a  sudden  sting  of  inexplicable  relief  and  pleasure. 
She  would  be  O'Hara 's  daughter,  then.  And  the  boy,  Arthur 
Benham  (there  was  no  room  for  doubt  in  the  photographer's 
description)  had  seemed  to  be  badly  in  love  with  her.  This 
was  a  new  development,  indeed!  It  wanted  thought,  reflec 
tion,  consultation  with  Richard  Hartley.  He  signalled  to  a 
fiacre,  and  when  it  had  drawn  up  before  him  sprang  into 
it  and  gave  Richard  Hartley's  address  in  the  Avenue  de 
1'Observatoire.  But  when  they  had  gone  a  little  way  he 
changed  his  mind  and  gave  another  address,  one  in  the 
Boulevard  de  la  Tour  Maubourg.  It  was  where  Mile.  Olga 
Nilssen  lived.  She  had  told  him  when  he  parted  from  her 
the  evening  before. 

On  the  way  he  fell  to  thinking  of  what  he  had  learned 
from  the  little  photographer  Bernstein,  to  setting  the  facts, 
as  well  as  he  could,  in  order,  endeavoring  to  make  out  just 
how  much  or  how  little  they  signified  by  themselves  or 
added  to  what  he  had  known  before.  But  he  was  in  far 
too  keen  a  state  of  excitement  to  review  them  at  all  calmly. 
As  on  the  previous  evening,  they  seemed  to  him  to  loom  to 
the  skies,  and  again  he  saw  himself  successful  in  his  quest 
— victorious — triumphant.  That  this  leap  to  conclusions 
was  but  a  little  less  absurd  than  the  first  did  not  occur  to 

H7 


JASON 

him.  He  was  in  a  fine  fever  of  enthusiasm,  and  such  dif 
ficulties  as  his  eye  perceived  lay  in  a  sort  of  vague  mist  to 
be  dissipated  later  on,  when  he  should  sit  quietly  down 
with  Hartley  and  sift  the  wheat  from  the  chaff,  laying  out 
a  definite  scheme  of  action. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  in  his  interview  with  the  photog 
rapher  he  had  forgotten  one  point,  and  he  determined  to 
go  back,  later  on,  and  ask  about  it.  He  had  forgotten  to 
inquire  as  to  Captain  Stewart's  attitude  toward  the  beau 
tiful  lady.  Young  Arthur  Benham's  infatuation  had  filled 
his  mind  at  the  time,  and  had  driven  out  of  it  what  Olga 
Nilssen  had  told  him  about  Stewart.  He  found  himself 
wondering  if  this  point  might  not  be  one  of  great  impor 
tance — the  rivalry  of  the  two  men  for  O'Hara's  daughter. 
Assuredly  that  demanded  thought  and  investigation. 

He  found  the  prettily  furnished  apartment  in  the  Avenue 
de  la  Tour  Maubourg  a  scene  of  great  disorder,  presided 
over  by  a  maid  who  seemed  to  be  packing  enormous 
quantities  of  garments  into  large  trunks.  The  maid  told 
him  that  her  mistress,  after  a  sleepless  night,  had  departed 
from  Paris  by  an  early  train,  quite  alone,  leaving  the  ser 
vant  to  follow  on  when  she  had  telegraphed  or  written  an 
address.  No,  Mile.  Nilssen  had  left  no  address  at  all — not 
even  for  letters  or  telegrams.  In  short,  the  entire  pro 
ceeding  was,  so  the  exasperated  woman  viewed  it,  every 
thing  that  is  imbecile. 

Ste.  Marie  sat  down  on  a  hamper  with  his  stick  between 
his  knees,  and  wrote  a  little  note  to  be  sent  on  when 
Mile.  Nilssen's  whereabouts  should  be  known.  It  was 
unfortunate,  he  reflected,  that  she  should  have  fled  away 
just  now,  but  not  of  great  importance  to  him,  because  he 
did  not  believe  that  he  could  learn  very  much  more  from 

148 


JASON 

her  than  he  had  learned  already.  Moreover,  he  sympa 
thized  with  her  desire  to  get  away  from  Paris — as  far  away 
as  possible  from  the  man  whom  she  had  seen  in  so  horrible 
a  state  on  the  evening  past. 

He  had  kept  the  fiacre  at  the  door,  and  he  drove  at  once 
back  to  the  rue  d'Assas.  As  he  started  to  mount  the  stair 
the  concierge  came  out  of  her  loge  to  say  that  Mr.  Hartley 
had  called  soon  after  Monsieur  had  left  the  house  that 
morning,  had  seemed  very  much  disappointed  on  not  find 
ing  Monsieur,  and  before  going  away  again  had  had  him 
self  let  into  Monsieur's  apartment  with  the  key  of  the 
femme  de  menage,  and  had  written  a  note  which  Monsieur 
would  find  la  haut. 

Ste.  Marie  thanked  the  woman,  and  went  on  up  to  his 
rooms,  wondering  why  Hartley  had  bothered  to  leave  a 
note  instead  of  waiting  or  returning  at  lunch-time,  as  he 
usually  did.  He  found  the  communication  on  his  table 
and  read  it  at  once.  Hartley  said: 

I  have  to  go  across  the  river  to  the  Bristol  to  see  some 
relatives  who  are  turning  up  there  to-day,  and  who  will 
probably  keep  me  until  evening,  and  then  I  shall  have  to 
go  back  there  to  dine.  So  I'm  leaving  a  word  for  you 
about  some  things  I  discovered  last  evening.  I  met  Miss 
Benham  at  Armenonville,  where  I  dined,  and  in  a  tete-a- 
tete  conversation  we  had  after  dinner  she  let  fall  two 
facts  which  seem  to  me  very  important.  They  concern 
Captain  S.  In  the  first  place,  when  he  told  us  that  day, 
some  time  ago,  that  he  knew  nothing  about  his  father's 
will  or  any  changes  that  might  have  been  made  in  it,  he 
lied.  It  seems  that  old  David,  shortly  after  the  boy's  dis 
appearance,  being  very  angry  at  what  he  considered,  and 
still  considers,  a  bit  of  spite  on  the  boy's  part,  cut  young 
Arthur  Benham  out  of  his  will  and  transferred  that  share 

149 


JASON 

to  Captain  S.  (Miss  Benham  learned  this  from  the  old  man 
only  yesterday).  Also  it  appears  that  he  did  this  after  talk 
ing  the  matter  over  with  Captain  S.,  who  affected  unwill 
ingness.  So,  as  the  will  reads  now,  Miss  B.  and  Captain 
S.  stand  to  share  equally  the  bulk  of  the  old  man's  money, 
which  is  several  millions — in  dollars,  of  course.  Miss  B.'s 
mother  is  to  have  the  interest  of  half  of  both  shares  as  long 
as  she  lives.  Now  mark  this:  Prior  to  this  new  arrange 
ment,  Captain  S.  was  to  receive  only  a  small  legacy,  on  the 
ground  that  he  already  had  a  respectable  fortune  left  him 
by  his  mother,  old  David's  first  wife  (I've  heard,  by-the- 
way,  that  he  has  squandered  a  good  share  of  this.) 

Miss  B.  is,  of  course,  much  cut  up  over  the  injustice 
to  the  boy,  but  she  can't  protest  too  much,  as  it  only  ex 
cites  old  David.  She  says  the  old  man  is  much  weaker. 

You  see,  of  course,  the  significance  of  all  this.  If  David 
Stewart  dies,  as  he's  likely  to  do,  before  young  Arthur's  re 
turn,  Captain  S.  gets  the  money. 

The  second  fact  I  learned  was  that  Miss  Benham  did 
not  tell  her  uncle  about  her  semi-engagement  to  you  or 
about  your  volunteering  to  search  for  the  boy.  She  thinks 
her  grandfather  must  have  told  him.  I  didn't  say  so  to 
her,  but  that  is  hardly  possible  in  view  of  the  fact  that 
Stewart  came  on  here  to  your  rooms  very  soon  after  you 
had  reached  them  yourself. 

So  that  makes  two  lies  for  our  gentle  friend — and  serious 
lies,  both  of  them.  To  my  mind,  they  point  unmistakably 
to  a  certain  conclusion.  Captain  S.  has  been  responsible 
for  putting  his  nephew  out  of  the  way.  He  has  either  hid 
den  him  somewhere  and  is  keeping  him  in  confinement,  or 
he  has  killed  him. 

I  wish  we  could  talk  it  over  to-day,  but,  as  you  see,  I'm 
helpless.  Remain  in  to-night,  and  I'll  come  as  soon  as  I 
can  get  rid  of  these  confounded  people  of  mine. 

One  word  more.     Be  careful!     Miss  B.  is,  up  to  this 


JASON 

point,  merely  puzzled  over  things.  She  doesn't  suspect  her 
uncle  of  any  crookedness,  I'm  sure.  So  we  shall  have  to 
tread  softly  where  she  is  concerned. 

I  shall  see  you  to-night.  R,  H. 

Ste.  Marie  read  the  closely  written  pages  through  twice, 
and  he  thought  how  like  his  friend  it  was  to  take  the  time 
and  trouble  to  put  what  he  had  learned  into  this  clear,  con 
cise  form.  Another  man  would  have  scribbled,  "Impor 
tant  facts — tell  you  all  about  it  to-night,"  or  something  of 
that  kind.  Hartley  must  have  spent  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
over  his  writing. 

Ste.  Marie  walked  up  and  down  the  room  with  all  his 
strength  forcing  his  brain  to  quiet,  reasonable  action. 
Once  he  said,  aloud: 

"Yes,  you're  right,  of  course.  Stewart  has  been  at  the 
bottom  of  it  all  along."  He  realized  that  he  had  been  for 
some  days  slowly  arriving  at  that  conclusion,  and  that 
since  the  night  before  he  had  been  practically  certain  of 
it,  though  he  had  not  yet  found  time  to  put  his  suspicions 
into  logical  order.  Hartley's  letter  had  driven  the  truth 
concretely  home  to  him,  but  he  would  have  reached  the 
same  truth  without  it — though  that  matter  of  the  will  was 
of  the  greatest  importance.  It  gave  him  a  strong  weapon 
to  strike  with. 

He  halted  before  one  of  the  front  windows,  and  his  eyes 
gazed  unseeing  across  the  street  into  the  green  shrubbery 
of  the  Luxembourg  Gardens.  The  lace  curtains  had  been 
left  by  the  femme  de  menage  hanging  straight  down,  and 
not,  as  usual,  looped  back  to  either  side,  so  he  could  see 
through  them  with  perfect  ease,  although  he  could  not  be 
seen  from  outside. 

"  151 


JASON 

He  became  aware  that  a  man  who  was  walking  slowly 
up  and  down  a  path  inside  the  high  iron  palings  was  in 
some  way  familiar  to  him,  and  his  eyes  sharpened.  The 
man  was  inconspicuously  dressed,  and  looked  like  almost 
any  other  man  whom  one  might  pass  in  the  streets  with 
out  taking  any  notice  of  him;  but  Ste.  Marie  knew  that  he 
had  seen  him  often,  and  he  wondered  how  and  where. 
There  was  a  row  of  lilac  shrubs  against  the  iron  palings 
just  inside  and  between  the  palings  and  the  path,  but  two 
of  the  shrubs  were  dead  and  leafless,  and  each  time  the  man 
passed  this  spot  he  came  into  plain  view;  each  time,  also, 
he  directed  an  oblique  glance  toward  the  house  opposite. 
Presently  he  turned  aside  and  sat  down  upon  one  of  the 
public  benches,  where  he  was  almost,  but  not  quite,  hidden 
by  the  intervening  foliage. 

Then  at  last  Ste.  Marie  gave  a  sudden  exclamation  and 
smote  his  hands  together. 

"The  fellow's  a  spy!"  he  cried,  aloud.  "He's  watching 
the  house  to  see  when  I  go  out."  He  began  to  remember 
how  he  had  seen  the  man  in  the  street  and  in  cafes  and 
restaurants,  and  he  remembered  that  he  had  once  or  twice 
thought  it  odd,  but  without  any  second  thought  of  sus 
picion.  So  the  fellow  had  been  set  to  spy  upon  him,  watch 
his  goings  and  comings  and  report  them  to — no  need  of 
asking  to  whom. 

Ste.  Marie  stood  behind  his  curtains  and  looked  across 
into  the  pleasant  expanse  of  shrubbery  and  greensward. 
He  was  wondering  if  it  would  be  worth  while  to  do  any 
thing.  Men  and  women  went  up  and  down  the  path, 
hurrying  or  slowly,  at  ease  with  the  world — laborers,  stu 
dents,  bonnes  with  market-baskets  in  their  hands  and  long 
bread  loaves  under  their  arms,  nurse-maids  herding  small 


JASON 

children,  bigger  children  spinning  diabolo  spools  as  they 
walked.  A  man  with  a  pointed  black  beard  and  a  soft 
hat  passed  once  and  returned  to  seat  himself  upon  the 
public  bench  that  Ste.  Marie  was  watching.  For  some 
minutes  he  sat  there  idle,  holding  the  soft  felt  hat  upon  his 
knees  for  coolness.  Then  he  turned  and  looked  at  the 
other  occupant  of  the  bench,  and  Ste.  Marie  thought  he  saw 
the  other  man  nod,  though  he  could  not  be  sure  whether 
either  one  spoke  or  not.  Presently  the  new-comer  rose, 
put  on  the  soft  hat  again,  and  disappeared  down  the  path 
going  toward  the  gate  at  the  head  of  the  rue  du  Luxem 
bourg. 

Five  minutes  later  the  door-bell  rang. 


XIII 

THE    VOYAGE   TO   COLCHIS 

OTE.  MARIE  turned  away  from  the  window  and  crossed 

0  to  the  door.     The  man  with  the  pointed  beard  removed 
his  soft  hat,  bowed  very  politely,  and  asked  if  he  had  the 
honor  to  address  M.  Ste.  Marie. 

"That  is  my  name,"  said  Ste.  Marie.     "Entrez,  Mon 
sieur!"     He  waved  his  visitor  to  a  chair  and  stood  waiting. 
The  man  with  the  beard  bowed  once  more.     He  said : 
"I  have  not  the  great  honor  of  Monsieur's  acquaintance, 
but  circumstances,  which  I  will  explain  later,  have  put  it 
in  my  power — have  made  it  a   sacred  duty,  if  I  may  be 
permitted  to  say  the  word — to  place  in  Monsieur's  hands 
a  piece  of  information." 

Ste.  Marie  smiled  slightly  and  sat  down.     He  said: 
"I  listen  with  pleasure — and  anticipation.     Pray  go  on!" 
"I  have  information,"  said  the  visitor,  "of  the  where 
abouts  of  M.  Arthur  Benham." 
Ste.  Marie  waved  his  hand. 

"I  feared  as  much,"  said  he.     "I  mean  to  say,  I  hoped 
so.     Proceed,  Monsieur!" 

"And   learning,"   continued   the   other,   "that    M.    Ste. 
Marie  was  conducting  a  search  for  that  young  gentleman, 

1  hastened  at  once  to  place  this  information  in  his  hands." 
"At  a  price,"  suggested  his  host.    "At  a  price,  to  be  sure." 

"54 


JASON 

The  man  with  the  beard  spread  out  his  hands  in  a  beau 
tiful  and  eloquent  gesture  which  well  accompanied  his 
Marseillais  accent. 

"Ah,  as  to  that!"  he  protested.  "My  circumstances — 
I  am  poor,  Monsieur.  One  must  gain  the  livelihood. 
What  would  you  ?  A  trifle.  The  merest  trifle." 

"Where  is  Arthur  Benham  ?"  asked  Ste.  Marie. 

"In  Marseilles,  Monsieur.  I  saw  him  a  week  ago — six 
days.  And,  so  far  as  I  could  learn,  he  had  no  intention  of 
leaving  there  immediately — though  it  is,  to  be  sure,  hot." 

Ste.  Marie  laughed  a  laugh  of  genuine  amusement,  and 
the  man  with  the  pointed  beard  stared  at  him  with  some 
wonder.  Ste.  Marie  rose  and  crossed  the  room  to  a  writing- 
desk  which  stood  against  the  opposite  wall.  He  fumbled 
in  a  drawer  of  this,  and  returned  holding  in  his  hand  a  pink- 
and-blue  note  of  the  Banque  de  France.  He  said: 

"Monsieur — pardon!  I  have  forgotten  to  ask  the 
name — you  have  remarked  quite  truly  that  one  must  gain 
a  livelihood.  Therefore,  I  do  not  presume  to  criticise  the 
way  in  which  you  gain  yours.  Sometimes  one  cannot 
choose.  However,  I  should  like  to  make  a  little  bargain 
with  you,  Monsieur.  I  know,  of  course,  being  not  alto 
gether  imbecile,  who  sent  you  here  with  this  story  and  why 
you  were  sent — why,  also,  your  friend  who  sits  upon  the 
bench  in  the  garden  across  the  street  follows  me  about  and 
spies  upon  me.  I  know  all  this,  and  I  laugh  at  it  a  little. 
But,  Monsieur,  to  amuse  myself  further,  I  have  a  desire  to 
hear  from  your  own  lips  the  name  of  the  gentleman  who  is 
your  employer.  Amusement  is  almost  always  expensive, 
and  so  I  am  prepared  to  pay  for  this.  I  have  here  a  note 
of  one  hundred  francs.  It  is  yours  in  return  for  the  name — 
the  right  name.  Remember,  I  know  it  already." 

155 


JASON 

The  man  with  the  pointed  beard  sprang  to  his  feet  quiv 
ering  with  righteous  indignation.  All  Southern  French 
men,  like  all  other  Latins,  are  magnificent  actors.  He  shook 
one  clinched  hand  in  the  air,  his  face  was  pale,  and  his 
fine  eyes  glittered.  Richard  Hartley  would  have  put  him 
self  promptly  in  an  attitude  of  defence,  but  Ste.  Marie 
nodded  a  smiling  head  in  appreciation.  He  was  half  a 
Southern  Frenchman  himself. 

"Monsieur!"  cried  his  visitor,  in  a  choked  voice,  "Mon 
sieur,  have  a  care!  You  insult  me!  Have  a  care,  Mon 
sieur!  I  am  dangerous!  My  anger,  when  roused, is  terrible!" 

"I  am  cowed,"  observed  Ste.  Marie,  lighting  a  cigarette. 
"I  quail." 

"Never,"  declaimed  the  gentleman  from  Marseilles, 
"have  I  received  an  insult  without  returning  blow  for  blow! 
My  blood  boils!" 

"The  hundred  francs,  Monsieur,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  "will 
doubtless  cool  it.  Besides,  we  stray  from  our  sheep.  Re 
flect,  my  friend!  I  have  not  insulted  you.  I  have  asked 
you  a  simple  question.  To  be  sure,  I  have  said  that  I 
knew  your  errand  here  was  not — not  altogether  sincere, 
but  I  protest,  Monsieur,  that  no  blame  attaches  to  your 
self.  The  blame  is  your  employer's.  You  have  performed 
your  mission  with  the  greatest  of  honesty — the  most  delicate 
and  faithful  sense  of  honor.  That  is  understood." 

The  gentleman  with  the  beard  strode  across  to  one  of 
the  windows  and  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand.  His 
shoulders  still  heaved  with  emotion,  but  he  no  longer 
trembled.  The  terrible  crisis  bade  fair  to  pass.  Then, 
abruptly,  in  the  frank  and  open  Latin  way,  he  burst  into 
tears,  and  wept  with  copious  profusion,  while  Ste.  Marie 
smoked  his  cigarette  and  waited. 

156 


JASON 

When  at  length  the  Marseillais  turned  back  into  the 
room  he  was  calm  once  more,  but  there  remained  traces  of 
storm  and  flood.  He  made  a  gesture  of  indescribable  and 
.pathetic  resignation. 

"Monsieur,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  have  a  heart  of  gold 
— of  gold,  Monsieur!  You  understand.  Behold  us,  two 
men  of  honor!  Monsieur,"  he  said,  "I  had  no  choice.  I 
was  poor.  I  saw  myself  face  to  face  with  the  misere. 
What  would  you  ?  I  fell.  We  are  all  weak  flesh.  I  ac 
cepted  the  commission  of  the  pig  who  sent  me  here  to 
you." 

Ste.  Marie  smoothed  the  pink-and-blue  bank-note  in  his 
hands,  and  the  other  man's  eye  clung  to  it  as  though  he 
were  starving  and  the  bank-note  was  food. 

"The  name?"  prompted  Ste.  Marie. 

The  gentleman  from  Marseilles  tossed  up  his  hands. 

"Monsieur  already  knows  it.  Why  should  I  hesitate? 
The  name  is  Ducrot." 

"What!"  cried  Ste.  Marie,  sharply.  "What  is  that? 
Ducrot  ?" 

"But  naturally!"  said  the  other  man,  with  some  wonder. 
"Monsieur  said  he  knew.  Certainly,  Ducrot.  A  little, 
withered  man,  bald  on  the  top  of  the  head,  creases  down 
the  cheeks,  a  mustache  like  this" — he  made  a  descriptive 
gesture — "a  little  chin.  A  man  like  an  elderly  cat.  M. 
Ducrot." 

Ste.  Marie  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  he.  "Ducrot  is  as  good  a  name  as 
another.  The  gentleman  has  more  than  one,  it  appears. 
Monsieur,  the  hundred-franc  note  is  yours." 

The  gentleman  from  Marseilles  took  it  with  a  slightly 
trembling  hand,  and  began  to  bow  himself  toward  the  door 

157 


JASON 

as  if  he  feared  that  his  host  would  experience  a  change  of 
heart;  but  Ste.  Marie  checked  him,  saying: 

"One  moment.  I  was  thinking,"  said  he,  "that  you 
would  perhaps  not  care  to  present  yourself  to  your — em 
ployer,  M.  Ducrot,  immediately — not  for  a  few  days,  at 
least,  in  view  of  the  fact  that  certain  actions  of  mine  will 
show  him  your  mission  has — well,  miscarried.  It  would, 
perhaps,  be  well  for  you  not  to  communicate  with  M. 
Ducrot.  He  might  be  displeased  with  you." 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  gentleman  with  the  beard,  "you 
speak  with  acumen  and  wisdom.  I  shall  neglect  to  report 
myself  to  M.  Ducrot,  who,  I  repeat,  is  a  pig." 

"And,"  pursued  Ste.  Marie,  "the  individual  on  the 
bench  across  the  street  ?" 

"It  is  not  necessary  that  I  meet  that  individual,  either!" 
said  the  Marseillais,  hastily.  "Monsieur,  I  bid  you  adieu!" 
He  bowed  again,  a  profound,  a  scraping  bow,  and  disap 
peared  through  the  door. 

Ste.  Marie  crossed  to  the  window  and  looked  down  upon 
the  pavement  below.  He  saw  his  late  visitor  emerge  from 
the  house  and  slip  rapidly  down  the  street  toward  the  rue 
Vavin.  He  glanced  across  into  the  gardens  and  the  spy 
still  sat  there  on  his  bench,  but  his  head  lay  back  and  he 
slept — the  sleep  of  the  unjust.  One  imagined  that  he  must 
be  snoring,  for  an  incredibly  small  urchin  in  a  blue  apron 
stood  on  the  path  before  him  and  watched  with  the  open 
mouth  of  astonishment. 

Ste.  Marie  turned  back  into  the  room,  and  began  to 
tramp  up  and  down  as  was  his  way  in  a  perplexity  or  in 
any  time  of  serious  thought.  He  wished  very  much  that 
Richard  Hartley  were  there  to  consult  with.  He  con 
sidered  Hartley  to  have  a  judicial  mind — a  mind  to  estab- 

158 


JASON 

lish,  out  of  confusion,  something  like  logical  order,  and 
he  was  very  well  aware  that  he  himself  had  not  that 
sort  of  mind  at  all.  In  action  he  was  sufficiently  con 
fident  of  himself,  but  to  construct  a  course  of  action 
he  was  afraid,  and  he  knew  that  a  misstep  now,  at 
this  critical  point,  might  be  fatal — turn  success  into  dis 
aster. 

He  fell  to  thinking  of  Captain  Stewart  (alias  M.  Ducrot) 
and  he  longed  most  passionately  to  leap  into  a  fiacre  at 
the  corner  below,  to  drive  at  a  gallop  across  the  city  to  the 
rue  du  Faubourg  St.  Honore,  to  fall  upon  that  smiling 
hypocrite  in  his  beautiful  treasure-house,  to  seize  him  by 
the  withered  throat  and  say: 

"Tell  me  what  you  have  done  with  Arthur  Benham 
before  I  tear  your  head  from  your  miserable  body!" 

Indeed,  he  was  far  from  sure  that  this  was  not  what  it 
would  come  to,  in  the  end,  for  he  reflected  that  he  had  not 
only  a  tremendous  accumulation  of  evidence  with  which 
to  face  Captain  Stewart,  but  also  a  very  terrible  weapon 
to  hold  over  his  head — the  threat  of  exposure  to  the  old 
man  who  lay  slowly  dying  in  the  rue  de  1'Universite!  A 
few  words  in  old  David's  ear,  a  few  proofs  of  their  truth, 
and  the  great  fortune  for  which  the  son  had  sold  his  soul — 
if  he  had  any  left  to  sell — must  pass  forever  out  of  his  reach, 
like  gold  seen  in  a  dream. 

This  is  what  it  might  well  come  to,  he  said  to  himself. 
Indeed,  it  seemed  to  him  at  that  moment  far  the  most 
feasible  plan,  for  to  such  accusations,  such  demands  as 
that,  Captain  Stewart  could  offer  no  defence.  To  save 
himself  from  a  more  complete  ruin  he  would  have  to  give 
up  the  boy  or  tell  what  he  knew  of  him.  But  Ste.  Marie 
was  unwilling  to  risk  everything  on  this  throw  without 

159 


JASON 

seeing  Richard  Hartley  first,  and  Hartley  was  not  to  be 
had  until  evening. 

He  told  himself  that,  after  all,  there  was  no  immediate 
hurry,  for  he  was  quite  sure  the  man  would  be  compelled 
to  keep  to  his  bed  for  a  day  or  two.  He  did  not  know 
much  about  epilepsy,  but  he  knew  that  its  paroxysms  were 
followed  by  great  exhaustion,  and  he  felt  sure  that  Stewart 
was  far  too  weak  in  body  to  recuperate  quickly  from  any 
severe  call  upon  his  strength.  He  remembered  how  light 
that  burden  had  been  in  his  arms  the  night  before,  and 
then  an  uncontrollable  shiver  of  disgust  went  over  him  as 
he  remembered  the  sight  of  the  horribly  twisted  and  con 
torted  face,  felt  again  the  shaking,  thumping  head  as  it 
beat  against  his  shoulder.  He  wondered  how  much  Stew 
art  knew,  how  much  he  would  be  able  to  remember  of  the 
events  of  the  evening  before,  and  he  was  at  a  loss  there 
because  of  his  unfamiliarity  with  epileptic  seizures.  Of 
one  thing,  however,  he  was  almost  certain,  and  that  was 
that  the  man  could  scarcely  have  been  conscious  of  who 
were  beside  him  when  the  fit  was  over.  If  he  had  come  at 
all  to  his  proper  senses  before  the  ensuing  slumber  of  ex 
haustion,  it  must  have  been  after  Mile.  Nilssen  and  him 
self  had  gone  away. 

Upon  that  he  fell  to  wondering  about  the  spy  and  the 
gentleman  from  Marseilles — he  was  a  little  sorry  that  Hart 
ley  could  not  have  seen  the  gentleman  from  Marseilles — 
but  he  reflected  that  the  two  were,  without  doubt,  acting 
upon  old  orders,  and  that  the  latter  had  probably  been 
stalking  him  for  some  days  before  he  found  him  at  home. 

He  looked  at  his  watch  and  it  was  half-past  twelve. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  done,  he  considered,  but  wait — 
get  through  the  day  somehow;  and  so,  presently,  he  went 

1 60 


JASON 

out  to  lunch.  He  went  up  the  rue  Vavin  to  the  Boulevard 
Montparnasse  and  down  that  broad  thoroughfare  to  Lave- 
nue's,  on  the  busy  Place  de  Rennes,  where  the  cooking  is 
the  best  in  all  this  quarter,  and  can,  indeed,  hold  up  its 
head  without  shame  in  the  face  of  those  other  more  widely 
famous  restaurants  across  the  river,  frequented  by  the 
smart  world  and  by  the  travelling  gourmet. 

He  went  through  to  the  inner  room,  which  is  built  like 
a  raised  loggia  round  two  sides  of  a  little  garden,  and 
which  is  always  cool  and  fresh  in  summer.  He  ordered 
a  rather  elaborate  lunch,  and  thought  that  he  sat  a  very 
long  time  at  it,  but  when  he  looked  again  at  his  watch 
only  an  hour  and  a  half  had  gone  by.  It  was  a  quarter-past 
two.  Ste.  Marie  was  depressed.  There  remained  almost 
all  of  the  afternoon  to  be  got  through,  and  Heaven  alone 
could  say  how  much  of  the  evening,  before  he  could  have 
his  consultation  with  Richard  Hartley.  He  tried  to  think 
of  some  way  of  passing  the  time,  but  although  he  was  not 
usually  at  a  loss  he  found  his  mind  empty  of  ideas.  None 
of  his  common  occupations  recommended  themselves  to 
him.  He  knew  that  whatever  he  tried  to  do  he  would 
interrupt  it  with  pulling  out  his  watch  every  half-hour  or 
so  and  cursing  the  time  because  it  lagged  so  slowly.  He 
went  out  to  the  terrace  for  coffee,  very  low  in  his  mind. 

But  half  an  hour  later,  as  he  sat  behind  his  little  marble- 
topped  table,  smoking  and  sipping  a  liqueur,  his  eyes  fell 
upon  something  across  the  square  which  brought  him  to 
his  feet  with  a  sudden  exclamation.  One  of  the  big  elec 
tric  trams  that  ply  between  the  Place  St.  Germain  des 
Pies  and  Clamart,  by  way  of  the  Porte  de  Versailles  and 
Vanves,  was  dragging  its  unwieldy  bulk  round  the  turn 
from  the  rue  de  Rennes  into  the  boulevard.  He  could 

161 


JASON 

see  the  sign-board  along  the  imperiale —  "Clamart-St. 
Germain  des  Pres,"  with  "Issy"  and  "Vanves"  in  brackets 
between. 

Ste.  Marie  clinked  a  franc  upon  the  table  and  made  off 
across  the  Place  at  a  run.  Omnibuses  from  Batignolles 
and  Menilmontant  got  in  his  way,  fiacres  tried  to  run  him 
down,  and  a  motor-car  in  a  hurry  pulled  up  just  in  time  to 
save  his  life,  but  Ste.  Marie  ran  on  and  caught  the  tram  be 
fore  it  had  completed  the  negotiation  of  the  long  curve  and 
gathered  speed  for  its  dash  down  the  boulevard.  He  sprang 
upon  the  step,  and  the  conductor  reluctantly  unfastened 
the  chain  to  admit  him.  So  he  climbed  up  to  the  top  and 
seated  himself,  panting.  The  dial  high  on  the  facade  of 
the  Gare  Montparnasse  said  ten  minutes  to  three. 

He  had  no  definite  plan  of  action.  He  had  started  off 
in  this  headlong  fashion  upon  the  spur  of  a  moment's  im 
pulse,  and  because  he  knew  where  the  tram  was  going. 
Now,  embarked,  he  began  to  wonder  if  he  was  not  a  fool. 
He  knew  every  foot  of  the  way  to  Clamart,  for  it  was  a 
favorite  half-day's  excursion  with  him  to  ride  there  in  this 
fashion,  walk  thence  through  the  beautiful  Meudon  wood 
across  to  the  river,  and  from  Bellevue  or  Bas-Meudon  take 
a  Suresnes  boat  back  into  the  city.  He  knew,  or  thought  he 
knew,  just  where  lay  the  house,  surrounded  by  garden  and 
half-wild  park,  of  which  Olga  Nilssen  had  told  him;  he 
had  often  wondered  whose  place  it  was  as  the  tram  rolled 
along  the  length  of  its  high  wall.  But  he  knew,  also,  that  he 
could  do  nothing  there,  single-handed  and  without  excuse 
or  preparation.  He  could  not  boldly  ring  the  bell,  demand 
speech  with  Mile.  Coira  O'Hara,  and  ask  her  if  she  knew 
anything  of  the  whereabouts  of  young  Arthur  Benham, 
whom  a  photographer  had  suspected  of  being  in  love  with 

162 


JASON 

her.  He  certainly  could  not  do  that.  And  there  seemed 
to  be  nothing  else  that — Ste.  Marie  broke  off  this  somewhat 
despondent  course  of  reasoning  with  a  sudden  little  voice 
less  cry.  For  the  first  time  it  occurred  to  him  to  connect 
the  house  on  the  Clamart  road  and  Mile.  Coira  O'Hara 
and  young  Arthur  Benham  (it  will  be  remembered  that  the 
man  had  not  yet  had  time  to  arrange  his  suddenly  ac 
quired  mass  of  evidence  in  logical  order  and  to  make  de 
ductions  from  it),  for  the  first  time  he  began  to  put  two 
and  two  together.  Stewart  had  hidden  away  his  nephew; 
this  nephew  was  known  to  have  been  much  enamoured  of 
the  girl  Coira  O'Hara;  Coira  O'Hara  was  said  to  be  living 
—  with  her  father,  probably  —  in  the  house  on  the  out 
skirts  of  Paris,  where  she  was  visited  by  Captain  Stewart. 
Was  not  the  inference  plain  enough — sufficiently  reason 
able  ?  It  left,  without  doubt,  many  puzzling  things  to  be 
explained — perhaps  too  many;  but  Ste.  Marie  sat  forward 
in  his  seat,  his  eyes  gleaming,  his  face  tense  with  excite 
ment. 

"  Is  young  Arthur  Benham  in  the  house  on  the  Clamart 
road  ?" 

He  said  the  words  almost  aloud,  and  he  became  aware 
that  the  fat  woman  with  a  live  fowl  at  her  feet  and  the 
butcher's  boy  on  his  other  side  were  looking  at  him  curious 
ly.  He  realized  that  he  was  behaving  in  an  excited  man 
ner,  and  so  sat  back  and  lowered  his  eyes.  But  over  and 
over  within  him  the  words  said  themselves — over  and  over, 
until  they  made  a  sort  of  mad,  foolish  refrain. 

"Is  Arthur  Benham  in,  the  house  on  the  Clamart  road  ? 
Is  Arthur  Benham  in  the  house  on  the  Clamart  road  ?" 
He  was  afraid  that  he  would  say  it  aloud  once  more,  and 
he  tried  to  keep  a  firm  hold  upon  himself. 

163 


JASON 

The  tram  swung  into  the  rue  de  Sevres,  and  rolled 
smoothly  out  the  long,  uninteresting  stretch  of  the  rue 
Lecourbe,  far  out  to  where  the  houses  became  scattered, 
where  mounds  and  pyramids  of  red  tiles  stood  alongside 
the  factory  where  they  had  been  made,  where  an  acre  of 
little  glass  hemispheres  in  long,  straight  rows  winked  and 
glistened  in  the  afternoon  sun — the  forcing-beds  of  some 
market  gardener;  out  to  the  Porte  de  Versailles  at  the  city 
wall,  where  a  group  of  customs  officers  sprawled  at  ease 
before  their  little  sentry-box  or  loafed  over  to  inspect  an 
incoming  tram. 

A  bugle  sounded  and  a  drum  beat  from  the  great  fosse 
under  the  wall,  and  a  company  of  piou-pious,  red-capped, 
red-trousered,  shambled  through  their  evolutions  in  a 
manner  to  break  the  heart  of  a  British  or  a  German  drill- 
sergeant.  Then  out  past  level  fields  to  little  Vanves,  with 
its  steep  streets  and  its  old  gray  church,  and  past  the 
splendid  grounds  of  the  Lycee  beyond.  The  fat  woman 
got  down,  her  live  fowl  shrieking  protest  to  the  movement, 
and  the  butcher's  boy  got  down,  too,  so  that  Ste.  Marie 
was  left  alone  upon  the  imperiale  save  for  a  snuffy  old 
gentleman  in  a  pot-hat  who  sat  in  a  corner  buried  behind 
the  day's  Droits  de  I'Homme. 

Ste.  Marie  moved  forward  once  more  and  laid  his  arms 
upon  the  iron  rail  before  him.  They  were  coming  near. 
They  ran  past  plum  and  apple  orchards  and  past  humble 
little  detached  villas,  each  with  a  bit  of  garden  in  front 
and  an  acacia  or  two  at  the  gate-posts.  But  presently,  on 
the  right,  the  way  began  to  be  bordered  by  a  high  stone 
wall,  very  long,  behind  which  showed  the  trees  of  a  park, 
and  among  them,  far  back  from  the  wall  beyond  a  little 
rise  of  ground,  the  gables  and  chimneys  of  a  house  could 

164 


JASON 

be  made  out.  The  wall  went  on  for  perhaps  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  in  a  straight  sweep,  but  half-way  the  road  swung 
apart  from  it  to  the  left,  dipped  under  a  stone  railway 
bridge,  and  so  presently  ended  at  the  village  of  Clamart. 

As  the  tram  approached  the  beginning  of  that  long 
stone  wall  it  began  to  slacken  speed,  there  was  a  grat 
ing  noise  from  underneath,  and  presently  it  came  to  an 
abrupt  halt.  Ste.  Marie  looked  over  the  guard-rail  and 
saw  that  the  driver  had  left  his  place  and  was  kneeling  in 
the  dust  beside  the  car  peering  at  its  underworks.  The 
conductor  strolled  round  to  him  after  a  moment  and  stood 
indifferently  by,  remarking  upon  the  strange  vicissitudes 
to  which  electrical  propulsion  is  subject.  The  driver,  with 
out  looking  up,  called  his  colleague  a  number  of  the  most 
surprising  and,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  unwarranted  names,  and 
suddenly  began  to  burrow  under  the  tram,  wriggling  his 
way  after  the  manner  of  a  serpent  until  nothing  could  be 
seen  of  him  but  two  unrestful  feet.  His  voice,  though 
muffled,  was  still  tolerably  distinct.  It  cursed,  in  an  un 
ceasing  staccato  and  with  admirable  ingenuity,  the  tram, 
the  conductor,  the  sacred  dog  of  an  impediment  which  had 
got  itself  wedged  into  one  of  the  trucks,  and  the  world  in 
general. 

Ste.  Marie,  sitting  aloft,  laughed  for  a  moment,  and  then 
turned  his  eager  eyes  upon  what  lay  across  the  road.  The 
halt  had  taken  place  almost  exactly  at  the  beginning  of 
that  long  stretch  of  park  wall  which  ran  beside  the  road 
and  the  tramway.  From  where  he  sat  he  could  see  the 
other  wing  which  led  inward  from  the  road  at  something 
like  a  right  angle,  but  was  presently  lost  to  sight  because  of  a 
sparse  and  unkempt  patch  of  young  trees  and  shrubs,  well- 
nigh  choked  with  undergrowth,  which  extended  for  some 

165 


JASON 

distance  from  the  park  wall  backward  along  the  road-side 
toward  Vanves.  Whoever  owned  that  stretch  of  land  had 
seemingly  not  thought  it  worth  while  to  cultivate  it  or  to 
build  upon  it  or  even  to  clear  it  off. 

Ste.  Marie's  first  thought,  as  his  eye  scanned  the  two 
long  stretches  of  wall  and  looked  over  their  tops  to  the 
trees  of  the  park  and  the  far-off  gables  and  chimneys  of 
the  house,  was  to  wonder  where  the  entrance  to  the  place 
could  be,  and  he  decided  that  it  must  be  on  the  side  opposite 
to  the  Clamart  tram-line.  He  did  not  know  the  smaller 
roads  hereabouts,  but  he  guessed  that  there  must  be  one 
somewhere  beyond,  between  the  route  de  Clamart  and  Fort 
d'Issy,  and  he  was  right.  There  is  a  little  road  between 
the  two;  it  sweeps  round  in  a  long  curve  and  ends  near 
the  tiny  public  garden  in  Issy,  and  it  is  called  the  rue 
Barbes. 

His  second  thought  was  that  this  unkempt  patch  of  tree 
and  brush  offered  excellent  cover  for  any  one  who  might 
wish  to  pass  an  observant  hour  alongside  that  high  stone 
wall;  for  any  one  who  might  desire  to  cast  a  glance  over 
the  lie  of  the  land,  to  see  at  closer  range  that  house  of 
which  so  little  could  be  seen  from  the  route  de  Clamart, 
to  look  over  the  wall's  coping  into  park  and  garden. 

The  thought  brought  him  to  his  feet  with  a  leaping 
heart,  and  before  he  realized  that  he  had  moved  he  found 
himself  in  the  road  beside  the  halted  tram.  The  con 
ductor  brushed  past  him,  mounting  to  his  place,  and  from 
the  platform  beckoned,  crying  out: 

"En  voiture,  Monsieur!     En  voiture!" 

Again  something  within  Ste.  Marie  that  was  not  his  con 
scious  direction  acted  for  him,  and  he  shook  his  head.  The 
conductor  gave  two  little  blasts  upon  his  horn,  the  tram 

166 


JASON 

wheezed  and  moved  forward.  In  a  moment  it  was  on  its 
way,  swinging  along  at  full  speed  toward  the  curve  in  the 
line  that  bore  to  the  left  and  dipped  under  the  railway 
bridge.  Ste.  Marie  stood  in  the  middle  of  that  empty 
road,  staring  after  it  until  it  had  disappeared  from  view. 


XIV 

THE   WALLS   OF   AEA 

STE.  MARIE  had  acted  upon  an  impulse  of  which  he 
was  scarcely  conscious  at  all,  and  when  he  found  him 
self  standing  alone  in  the  road  and  watching  the  Clamart 
tram  disappear  under  the  railway  bridge  he  called  him 
self  hard  names  and  wondered  what  he  was  to  do  next. 
He  looked  before  and  behind  him,  and  there  was  no  living 
soul  in  sight.  He  bent  his  eyes  again  upon  that  unkempt 
patch  of  young  trees  and  undergrowth,  and  once  more  the 
thought  forced  itself  to  his  brain  that  it  would  make  excel 
lent  cover  for  one  who  wished  to  observe  a  little — to  re 
connoitre. 

He  knew  that  it  was  the  part  of  wisdom  to  turn  his  back 
upon  this  place,  to  walk  on  to  Clamart  or  return  to  Vanves 
and  mount  upon  a  homeward-bound  tram.  He  knew  that 
it  was  the  part  of  folly,  of  madness  even,  to  expose  him 
self  to  possible  discovery  by  some  one  within  the  walled 
enclosure.  What  though  no  one  there  were  able  to  recog 
nize  him,  still  the  sight  of  a  man  prowling  about  the  walls, 
seeking  to  spy  over  them,  might  excite  an  alarm  that  would 
lead  to  all  sorts  of  undesirable  complications.  Dimly  Ste. 
Marie  realized  all  this,  and  he  tried  to  turn  his  back  and 
walk  away,  but  the  patch  of  little  trees  and  shrubbery 
drew  him  with  an  irresistible  fascination.  "Just  a  little 

1 68 


JASON 

look  along  that  unknown  wall,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  just 
the  briefest  of  all  brief  reconnaissances,  the  merest  glance 
beyond  the  masking  screen  of  wood  growth,  so  that  in  case 
of  sudden  future  need  he  might  have  the  lie  of  the  place 
clear  in  his  mind;"  for  without  any  sound  reason  for  it  he 
was  somehow  confident  that  this  walled  house  and  garden 
were  to  play  an  important  part  in  the  rescue  of  Arthur  Ben- 
ham.  It  was  once  more  a  matter  of  feeling.  The  rather 
womanlike  intuition  which  had  warned  him  that  O'Hara 
was  concerned  in  young  Benham's  disappearance,  and  that 
the  two  were  not  far  from  Paris,  was  again  at  work  in  him, 
and  he  trusted  it  as  he  had  done  before. 

He  gave  a  little  nod  of  determination,  as  one  who,  for 
good  or  ill,  casts  a  die,  and  he  crossed  the  road.  There 
was  a  deep  ditch,  and  he  had  to  climb  down  into  it  and 
up  its  farther  side,  for  it  was  too  broad  to  be  jumped.  So 
he  came  into  the  shelter  of  the  young  poplars  and  elms 
and  oaks.  The  underbrush  caught  at  his  clothes,  and  the 
dead  leaves  of  past  seasons  crackled  underfoot;  but  after 
a  little  space  he  came  to  somewhat  clearer  ground,  though 
the  saplings  still  stood  thick  about  him  and  hid  him  se 
curely. 

He  made  his  way  inward  along  the  wall,  keeping  a  short 
distance  back  from  it,  and  he  saw  that  after  twenty  or  thirty 
yards  it  turned  again  at  a  very  obtuse  angle  away  from  him 
and  once  more  ran  on  in  a  long  straight  line.  Just  beyond 
this  angle  he  came  upon  a  little  wooden  door  thickly  studded 
with  nails.  It  was  made  to  open  inward,  and  on  the  out 
side  there  was  no  knob  or  handle  of  any  kind,  only  a  large 
key-hole  of  the  simple,  old-fashioned  sort.  Slipping  up  near 
to  look,  Ste.  Marie  observed  that  the  edges  of  the  key-hole 
were  rusty,  but  scratched  a  little  through  the  rust  with 

169 


JASON 

recent  marks;  so  the  door,  it  seemed,  was  sometimes  used. 
He  observed  another  thing.  The  ground  near  by  was  less 
encumbered  with  trees  than  at  any  other  point,  and  the  turf 
was  depressed  with  many  wheel  marks — broad  marks,  such 
as  are  made  only  by  the  wheels  of  a  motor-car.  He  fol 
lowed  these  tracks  for  a  little  distance,  and  they  wound  in 
and  out  among  the  trees,  and  beyond  the  thin  fringe  of 
wood  swept  away  in  a  curve  toward  Issy,  doubtless  to 
join  the  road  which  he  had  already  imagined  to  lie  some 
where  beyond  the  enclosure. 

Beyond  the  more  open  space  about  this  little  door  the 
young  trees  stood  thick  together  again,  and  Ste.  Marie 
pressed  cautiously  on.  He  stopped  now  and  then  to  listen, 
and  once  he  thought  that  he  heard  from  within  the  sound 
of  a  woman's  laugh,  but  he  could  not  be  sure.  The  slight 
change  of  direction  had  confused  him  a  little,  and  he  was 
uncertain  as  to  where  the  house  lay.  The  wall  was  twelve 
or  fifteen  feet  high,  and  from  the  level  of  the  ground  he 
could,  of  course,  see  nothing  over  it  but  tree  tops.  He  went 
on  for  what  may  have  been  a  hundred  yards,  but  it  seemed 
to  him  very  much  more  than  that,  and  he  came  to  a  tall 
gnarled  cedar-tree  which  stood  almost  against  the  high  wall. 
It  was  half  dead,  but  its  twisted  limbs  were  thick  and  strong, 
and  by  force  of  the  tree's  cramped  position  they  had  grown 
in  strange  and  grotesque  forms.  One  of  them  stretched 
across  the  very  top  of  the  stone  wall,  and  with  the  wind's 
action  it  had  scraped  away  the  coping  of  tiles  and  bottle- 
glass  and  had  made  a  little  depression  there  to  rest  in. 

Ste.  Marie  looked  up  along  this  natural  ladder,  and 
temptation  smote  him  sorely.  It  was  so  easy  and  so  safe! 
There  was  enough  foliage  left  upon  the  half-dead  tree  to 
screen  him  well,  but  whether  or  no  it  is  probable  that  he 

170 


JASON 

would  have  yielded  to  the  proffered  lure.  There  seems  to 
have  been  more  than  chance  in  Ste.  Marie's  movements 
upon  this  day;  there  seems  to  have  been  something  like 
the  hand  of  Fate  in  them — as  doubtless  there  is  in  most 
things,  if  one  but  knew. 

He  left  his  hat  and  stick  behind  him,  under  a  shrub,  and 
he  began  to  make  his  way  up  the  half-bare  branches  of 
the  gnarled  cedar.  They  bore  him  well,  without  crack  or 
rustle,  and  the  way  was  very  easy.  No  ladder  made  by 
man  could  have  offered  a  much  simpler  ascent.  So,  mount 
ing  slowly  and  with  care,  his  head  came  level  with  the  top 
of  the  wall.  He  climbed  to  the  next  branch,  a  foot  higher, 
and  rested  there.  The  drooping  foliage  from  the  upper 
part  of  the  cedar-tree,  which  was  still  alive,  hung  down 
over  him  and  cloaked  him  from  view,  but  through  its 
aromatic  screen  he  could  see  as  freely  as  through  the  win 
dow  curtain  in  the  rue  d'Assas. 

The  house  lay  before  him,  a  little  to  the  left  and  perhaps 
a  hundred  yards  away.  It  was  a  disappointing  house  to 
find  in  that  great  enclosure,  for  though  it  was  certainly 
neither  small  nor  trivial,  it  was  as  certainly  far  from  pos 
sessing  anything  like  grandeur.  It  had  been  in  its  day  a 
respectable,  unpretentious  square  structure  of  three  stories, 
entirely  without  architectural  beauty,  but  also  entirely 
without  the  ornate  hideousness  of  the  modern  villas  along 
the  route  de  Clamart.  Now,  however,  the  stucco  was 
gone  in  great  patches  from  its  stone  walls,  giving  them  an 
unpleasantly  diseased  look,  and  long  neglect  of  all  decent 
cares  had  lent  the  place  the  air  almost  of  desertion.  An 
ciently  the  grounds  before  the  house  had  been  laid  out  in 
the  formal  fashion  with  a  terrace  and  geometrical  lawns 
and  a  pool  and  a  fountain  and  a  rather  fine,  long  vista 

171 


JASON 

between  clipped  larches,  but  the  same  neglect  which  had 
made  shabby  the  stuccoed  house  had  allowed  grass  and 
weeds  to  grow  over  the  gravel  paths,  underbrush  to  spring 
up  and  to  encroach  upon  the  geometrical  turf-plots,  the 
long  double  row  of  clipped  larches  to  flourish  at  will  or  to 
die  or  to  fall  prostrate  and  lie  where  they  had  fallen. 

So  all  the  broad  enclosure  was  a  scene  of  heedless  neglect, 
a  riot  of  unrestrained  and  wanton  growth,  where  should 
have  been  decorous  and  orderly  beauty.  It  was  a  sight  to 
bring  tears  to  a  gardener's  eyes,  but  it  had  a  certain  un 
tamed  charm  of  its  own,  for  all  that.  The  very  riot  of  it, 
the  wanton  prodigality  of  untouched  natural  growth,  pro 
duced  an  effect  that  was  by  no  means  all  disagreeable. 

An  odd  and  whimsical  thought  came  into  Ste.  Marie's 
mind  that  thus  must  have  looked  the  garden  and  park 
round  the  castle  of  the  sleeping  beauty  when  the  prince 
came  to  wake  her. 

But  sleeping  beauties  and  unkempt  grounds  went  from 
him  in  a  flash  when  he  became  aware  of  a  sound  which  was 
like  the  sound  of  voices.  Instinctively  he  drew  farther 
back  into  the  shelter  of  his  aromatic  screen.  His  eyes 
swept  the  space  below  him  from  right  to  left,  and  could 
see  no  one.  So  he  sat  very  still,  save  for  the  thunderous 
beat  of  a  heart  which  seemed  to  him  like  drum-beats  when 
soldiers  are  marching,  and  he  listened — "all  ears,"  as  the 
phrase  goes. 

The  sound  was  in  truth  a  sound  of  voices.  He  was 
presently  assured  of  that,  but  for  some  time  he  could  not 
make  out  from  which  direction  it  came.  And  so  he  was 
the  more  startled  when  quite  suddenly  there  appeared  from 
behind  a  row  of  tall  shrubs  two  young  people  moving  slowly 
together  up  the  untrimmed  turf  in  the  direction  of  the  house. 

172 


THERE     APPEARED     TWO     YOUNG     PEOPLE     MOVING     SLOWLY 
IN    THE    DIRECTION    OF   THE    HOUSE 


JASON 

The  two  young  people  were  Mile.  Coira  O'Hara  and 
Arthur  Benham,  and  upon  the  brow  of  this  latter  youth 
there  was  no  sign  of  dungeon  pallor,  upon  his  free-moving 
limbs  no  ball  and  chain.  There  was  no  apparent  reason 
why  he  should  not  hasten  back  to  the  eager  arms  in  the  rue 
de  1'Universite  if  he  chose  to — unless,  indeed,  his  undis- 
sembling  attitude  toward  Mile.  Coira  O'Hara  might  serve 
as  a  reason.  The  young  man  followed  at  her  heel  with 
much  the  manner  and  somewhat  the  appearance  of  a  small 
dog  humbly  conscious  of  unworthiness,  but  hopeful  never 
theless  of  an  occasional  kind  word  or  pat  on  the  head. 

The  world  wheeled  multi-colored  and  kaleidoscopic  be 
fore  Ste.  Marie's  eyes,  and  in  his  ears  there  was  a  rushing 
of  great  winds,  but  he  set  his  teeth  and  clung  with  all  the 
strength  he  had  to  the  tree  which  sheltered  him.  His  first 
feeling,  after  that  initial  giddiness,  was  anger,  sheer  anger, 
a  bewildered  and  astonished  fury.  He  had  thought  to  find 
this  poor  youth  in  captivity,  pining  through  prison  bars  for 
the  home  and  the  loved  ones  and  the  familiar  life  from 
which  he  had  been  ruthlessly  torn.  Yet  here  he  was  stroll 
ing  in  a  suburban  garden  with  a  lady — free,  free  as  air, 
or  so  he  seemed.  Ste.  Marie  thought  of  the  grim  and  sor 
rowful  old  man  in  Paris  who  was  sinking  untimely  into 
his  grave  because  his  grandson  did  not  return  to  him;  he 
thought  of  that  timid  soul — more  shadow  than  woman — 
the  boy's  mother;  he  thought  of  Helen  Benham's  tragic 
eyes,  and  he  could  have  beaten  young  Arthur  half  to  death 
in  that  moment  in  the  righteous  rage  that  stormed  within 
him. 

But  he  turned  his  eyes  from  this  wretched  youth  to  the 
girl  who  walked  beside,  a  little  in  advance,  and  the  rage 
died  in  him  swiftly. 

173 


JASON 

After  all,  was  she  not  one  to  make  any  boy — or  any  man 
— forget  duty,  home,  friends,  everything? 

Rather  oddly  his  mind  flashed  back  to  the  morning  and 
to  the  words  of  the  little  photographer,  Bernstein.  Perhaps 
the  Jew  had  put  it  as  well  as  any  man  could: 

"She  was  a  goddess,  that  lady,  a  queen  of  goddesses  .  .  . 
the  young  Juno  before  marriage.  .  .  ." 

Ste.  Marie  nodded  his  head.  Yes,  she  was  just  that. 
The  little  Jew  had  spoken  well.  It  could  not  be  more 
fairly  put — though  without  doubt  it  could  have  been  ex 
pressed  at  much  greater  length  and  with  a  great  deal  more 
eloquence.  The  photographer's  other  words  came  also  to 
his  mind,  the  more  detailed  description,  and  again  he 
nodded  his  head,  for  this,  too,  was  true. 

"She  was  all  color — brown  skin  with  a  dull-red  stain 
under  the  cheeks,  and  a  great  mass  of  hair  that  was  not 
black  but  very  nearly  black — except  in  the  sun,  and  then 
there  were  red  lights  in  it." 

It  occurred  to  Ste.  Marie,  whimsically,  that  the  two 
young  people  might  have  stepped  out  of  the  door  of  Bern 
stein's  studio  straight  into  this  garden,  judging  from  their 
bearing  each  to  the  other. 

"Ah,  a  thing  to  touch  the  heart!  Such  devotion  as  that! 
Alas,  that  the  lady  should  seem  so  cold  to  it!  ...  Still,  a  god 
dess!  What  would  you?  A  queen  among  goddesses!  .  .  . 
One  would  not  have  them  laugh  and  make  little  jokes.  .  .  . 
Make  eyes  at  love-sick  boys.  No,  indeed!" 

Certainly  Mile.  Coira  O'Hara  was  not  making  eyes  at 
the  love-sick  boy  who  followed  at  her  heel  this  afternoon. 
Perhaps  it  would  be  going  too  far  to  say  that  she  was  cold 
to  him,  but  it  was  very  plain  to  see  that  she  was  bored  and 
weary,  and  that  she  wished  she  might  be  almost  anywhere 

174 


JASON 

else  than  where  she  was.  She  turned  her  beautiful  face  a 
little  toward  the  wall  where  Ste.  Marie  lay  perdu,  and  he 
could  see  that  her  eyes  had  the  same  dark  fire,  the  same 
tragic  look  of  appeal  that  he  had  seen  in  them  before — 
once  in  the  Champs-Elysees  and  again  in  his  dreams. 

Abruptly  he  became  aware  that  while  he  gazed,  like  a 
man  in  a  trance,  the  two  young  people  walked  on  their 
way  and  were  on  the  point  of  passing  beyond  reach  of  eye 
or  ear.  He  made  a  sudden  involuntary  movement  as  if 
he  would  call  them  back,  and  for  the  first  time  his  faithful 
hiding-place,  strained  beyond  silent  endurance,  betrayed 
him  with  a  loud  rustle  of  shaken  branches.  Ste.  Marie 
shrank  back,  his  heart  in  his  throat.  It  was  too  late  to 
retreat  now  down  the  tree.  The  damage  was  already  done. 
He  saw  the  two  young  people  halt  and  turn  to  look,  and 
after  a  moment  he  saw  the  boy  come  slowly  forward,  star 
ing.  He  heard  him  say: 

"What's  up  in  that  tree?  There's  something  in  the 
tree."  And  he  heard  the  girl  answer:  "It's  only  birds 
fighting.  Don't  bother!"  But  young  Arthur  Benham 
came  on,  staring  up  curiously  until  he  was  almost  under 
the  high  wall. 

Then  Ste.  Marie's  strange  madness,  or  the  hand  of  Fate, 
or  whatever  power  it  was  which  governed  him  on  that  day, 
thrust  him  on  to  the  ultimate  pitch  of  recklessness.  He 
bent  forward  from  his  insecure  perch  over  the  wall  until 
his  head  and  shoulders  were  in  plain  sight,  and  he  called 
down  to  the  lad  below  in  a  loud  whisper: 

"Benham!     Benham!" 

The  boy  gave  a  sharp  cry  of  alarm  and  began  to  back 
away.  And  after  a  moment  Ste.  Marie  heard  the  cry 
echoed  from  Coira  O'Hara.  He  heard  her  say: 

175 


JASON 

"Be  careful!  Be  careful,  Arthur!  Come  away!  Oh, 
come  away  quickly!" 

Ste.  Marie  raised  his  own  voice  to  a  sort  of  cry.     He  said: 

"Wait!  I  tell  you  to  wait,  Benham!  I  must  have  a 
word  with  you.  I  come  from  your  family — from  Helen!" 

To  his  amazement  the  lad  turned  about  and  began  to 
run  toward  where  the  girl  stood  waiting;  and  so,  without 
a  moment's  hesitation,  Ste.  Marie  threw  himself  across  the 
top  of  the  wall,  hung  for  an  instant  by  his  hands,  and 
dropped  upon  the  soft  turf.  Scarcely  waiting  to  recover 
his  balance,  he  stumbled  forward,  shouting: 

"Wait!  I  tell  you,  wait!  Are  you  mad?  Wait,  I  say! 
Listen  to  me!" 

Vaguely,  in  the  midst  of  his  great  excitement,  he  had 
heard  a  whistle  sound  as  he  dropped  inside  the  wall.  He 
did  not  know  then  whence  the  shrill  call  had  come,  but 
afterward  he  knew  that  Coira  O'  Hara  had  blown  it.  And 
now,  as  he  ran  forward  toward  the  two  who  stood  at  a 
distance  staring  at  him,  he  heard  other  steps  and  he  slack 
ened  his  pace  to  look. 

A  man  came  running  down  among  the  black-boled 
trees,  a  strange,  squat,  gnomelike  man  whose  gait  was  as 
uncouth  as  his  dwarfish  figure.  He  held  something  in  his 
two  hands  as  he  ran,  and  when  he  came  near  he  threw  this 
thing  with  a  swift  movement  up  before  him,  but  he  did 
not  pause  in  his  odd,  scrambling  run. 

Ste.  Marie  felt  a  violent  blow  upon  his  left  leg  between 
hip  and  knee.  He  thought  that  somebody  had  crept  up 
behind  him  and  struck  him;  but  as  he  whirled  about  he 
saw  that  there  was  no  one  there,  and  then  he  heard  a  noise 
and  knew  that  the  gnomelike  running  man  had  shot  him. 
He  faced  about  once  more  toward  the  two  young  people. 

176 


JASON 

He  was  very  angry  and  he  wished  to  say  so,  and  very 
much  he  wished  to  explain  why  he  had  trespassed  there, 
and  why  they  had  no  right  to  shoot  him  as  if  he  were  some 
wretched  thief.  But  he  found  that  in  some  quite  absurd 
fashion  he  was  as  if  fixed  to  the  ground.  It  was  as  if  he 
had  suddenly  become  of  the  most  ponderous  and  incredible 
weight,  like  lead — or  that  other  metal,  not  gold,  which  is 
the  heaviest  of  all.  Only  the  metal,  seemingly,  was  not 
only  heavy  but  fiery  hot,  and  his  strength  was  incapable 
of  holding  it  up  any  longer.  His  eyes  fixed  themselves  in 
a  bewildered  stare  upon  the  figure  of  Mile.  Coira  O'Hara; 
he  had  time  to  observe  that  she  had  put  up  her  two  hands 
over  her  face,  then  he  fell  down  forward,  his  head  struck 
something  very  hard,  and  he  knew  no  more. 


XV 

A    CONVERSATION   AT   LA    LIERRE 

CAPTAIN  STEWART  walked  nervously  up  and  down 
the  small  inner  drawing-room  at  La  Lierre,  his  rest 
less  hands  fumbling  together  behind  him,  and  his  eyes  turn 
ing  every  half-minute  with  a  sharp  eagerness  to  the  closed 
door.  But  at  last,  as  if  he  were  very  tired,  he  threw  him 
self  down  in  a  chair  which  stood  near  one  of  the  windows, 
and  all  his  tense  body  seemed  to  relax  in  utter  exhaustion. 
It  was  not  a  very  comfortable  chair  that  he  had  sat  down 
in,  but  there  were  no  comfortable  chairs  in  the  room — nor, 
for  that  matter,  in  all  the  house.  When  he  had  taken  the 
place,  about  two  months  before  this  time,  he  had  taken  it 
furnished,  but  that  does  not  mean  very  much  in  France. 
No  French  country-houses — or  town-houses,  either — are  in 
the  least  comfortable,  by  Anglo-Saxon  standards,  and  that 
is  at  least  one  excellent  reason  why  Frenchmen  spend  just 
as  little  time  in  them  as  they  possibly  can.  Half  the  cafes 
in  Paris  would  promptly  put  up  their  shutters  if  Parisian 
homes  could  all  at  once  turn  themselves  into  something 
like  English  or  American  ones.  As  for  La  Lierre,  it  was 
even  more  dreary  and  bare  and  tomblike  than  other  country- 
houses,  because  it  was,  after  all,  a  sort  of  ruin,  and  had  not 
been  lived  in  for  fifteen  years,  save  by  an  ancient  caretaker 
and  his  nearly  as  ancient  wife.  And  that  was,  perhaps, 

178 


JASON 

why  it  could  be  taken  on  a  short  lease  at  such  a  very  low 
price. 

The  room  in  which  Captain  Stewart  sat  was  behind  the 
large  drawing-room,  which  was  always  kept  closed  now, 
and  it  looked  out  by  one  window  to  the  west,  and  by  two 
windows  to  the  north,  over  a  corner  of  the  kitchen  garden 
and  a  vista  of  trees  beyond.  It  was  a  high-ceiled  room 
with  walls  bare  except  for  two  large  mirrors  in  the  Empire 
fashion,  which  stared  at  each  other  across  the  way  with 
dull  and  flaking  eyes.  Under  each  of  these  stood  a  heavy 
gilt  and  ebony  console  with  a  top  of  chocolate-colored  mar 
ble,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  room  there  was  a  table  of  a 
like  fashion  to  the  consoles.  Further  than  this  there  was 
nothing  save  three  chairs,  upon  one  of  which  lay  Captain 
Stewart's  dust-coat  and  motoring  cap  and  goggles. 

A  shaft  of  golden  light  from  the  low  sun  slanted  into  the 
place  through  the  western  window  from  which  the  Venetians 
had  been  pulled  back,  and  fell  across  the  face  of  the  man 
who  lay  still  and  lax  in  his  chair,  eyes  closed  and  chin 
dropped  a  little  so  that  his  mouth  hung  weakly  open.  He 
looked  very  ill,  as,  indeed,  any  one  might  look  after  such  an 
attack  as  he  had  suffered  on  the  night  previous.  That  one 
long  moment  of  deathly  fear  before  he  had  fallen  down  in 
a  fit  had  nearly  killed  him.  All  through  this  following  day 
it  had  continued  to  recur  until  he  thought  he  should  go 
mad.  And  there  was  worse  still.  How  much  did  Olga 
Nilssen  know  ?  And  how  much  had  she  told  ?  She  had 
astonished  and  frightened  him  when  she  had  said  that 
she  knew  about  the  house  on  the  road  to  Clamart,  for  he 
thought  he  had  hidden  his  visits  to  La  Lierre  well.  He 
wondered  rather  drearily  how  she  had  discovered  them, 
and  he  wondered  how  much  she  knew  more  than  she  had 

179 


JASON 

admitted.  He  had  a  half-suspicion  of  something  like  the 
truth,  that  Mile.  Nilssen  knew  only  of  Coira  O'Hara's  pres 
ence  here,  and  drew  a  rather  natural  inference.  If  that  was 
all,  there  was  no  danger  from  her — no  more,  that  is,  than  had 
already  borne  its  fruit,  for  Stewart  knew  well  enough  that 
Ste.  Marie  must  have  learned  of  the  place  from  her.  In 
any  case  Olga  Nilssen  had  left  Paris — he  had  discovered 
that  fact  during  the  day — and  so  for  the  present  she  might 
be  eliminated  as  a  source  of  peril. 

The  man  in  the  chair  gave  a  little  groan  and  rolled  his 
head  wearily  to  and  fro  against  the  uncomfortable  chair- 
back,  for  now  he  came  to  the  real  and  immediate  danger, 
and  he  was  so  very  tired  and  ill,  and  his  head  ached  so 
sickeningly  that  it  was  almost  beyond  him  to  bring  him 
self  face  to  face  with  it. 

There  was  the  man  who  lay  helpless  upon  a  bed  up 
stairs!  And  there  were  the  man's  friends,  who  were  not 
at  all  helpless  or  bedridden  or  in  captivity! 

A  wave  of  almost  intolerable  pain  swept  through  Stew 
art's  aching  head,  and  he  gave  another  groan  which  was 
almost  like  a  child's  sob.  But  at  just  that  moment  the 
door  which  led  into  the  central  hall  opened,  and  the  Irish 
man  O'Hara  came  into  the  room.  Captain  Stewart  sprang 
to  his  feet  to  meet  him,  and  he  caught  the  other  man  by  the 
arm  in  his  eagerness. 

"How  is  he  ?"  he  cried  out.  "How  is  he  ?  How  badly 
was  he  hurt  ?" 

"The  patient  ?"  said  O'Hara.  "Let  go  my  arm!  Hang 
it,  man,  you're  pinching  me!  Oh,  he'll  do  well  enough. 
He'll  be  fit  to  hobble  about  in  a  week  or  ten  days.  The 
bullet  went  clean  through  his  leg  and  out  again  without 
cutting  an  artery.  It  was  a  sort  of  miracle — and  a  damned 

1 80 


JASON 

lucky  miracle  for  all  hands,  too!  If  we'd  had  a  splintered 
bone  or  a  severed  artery  to  deal  with  I  should  have  had  to 
call  in  a  doctor.  Then  the  fellow  would  have  talked,  and 
there'd  have  been  the  devil  to  pay.  As  it  is,  I  shall  be  able 
to  manage  well  enough  with  my  own  small  skill.  I've 
dressed  worse  wounds  than  that  in  my  time.  By  Jove,  it 
was  a  miracle,  though!"  A  sudden  little  gust  of  rage  swept 
him.  He  cried  out:  "That  confounded  fool  of  a  gardener, 
that  one-eyed  Michel,  ought  to  be  beaten  to  death.  Why 
couldn't  he  have  slipped  up  behind  this  fellow  and  knocked 
him  on  the  head,  instead  of  shooting  him  from  ten  paces 
away?  The  benighted  idiot!  He  came  near  upsetting  the 
whole  boat!" 

"Yes,"  said  Captain  Stewart,  with  a  sharp,  hard  breath, 
"he  should  have  shot  straighter  or  not  at  all." 

The  Irishman  stared  at  him  with  his  bright  blue  eyes, 
and  after  a  moment  he  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"Jove,  you're  a  bloodthirsty  beggar,  Stewart!"  said  he. 
"That  would  have  been  a  rum  go,  if  you  like!  Killing  the 
fellow!  All  his  friends  down  on  us  like  hawks,  and  the 
police  and  all  that!  You  can't  go  about  killing  people  in 
the  outskirts  of  Paris,  you  know — at  least  not  people  with 
friends.  And  this  chap  looks  like  a  gentleman,  more  or 
less,  so  I  take  it  he  has  friends.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  his 
face  is  rather  familiar.  I  think  I've  seen  him  before,  some 
where.  You  looked  at  him  just  now  through  the  crack 
of  the  door;  do  you  know  who  he  is  ?  Coira  tells  me  he 
called  out  to  Arthur  by  name,  but  Arthur  says  he  never 
saw  him  before  and  doesn't  know  him  at  all." 

Captain  Stewart  shivered.  It  had  not  been  a  pleasant 
moment  for  him,  that  moment  when  he  had  looked  through 
the  crack  of  the  door  and  recognized  Ste.  Marie. 

181 


JASON 

"Yes,"  he  said,  half  under  his  breath — "yes,  I  know  who 
he  is.  A  friend  of  the  family." 

The  Irishman's  lips  puckered  to  a  low  whistle.     He  said: 

"Spying,  then,  as  I  thought.     He  has  run  us  to  earth." 

And  the  other  nodded.  O'Hara  took  a  turn  across  the 
room  and  back. 

"In  that  case,"  he  said,  presently — "in  that  case,  then,  we 
must  keep  him  prisoner  here  so  long  as  we  remain.  That's 
certain."  He  spun  round  sharply  with  an  exclamation. 
"Look  here!"  he  cried,  in  a  lower  tone,  "how  about  this 
fellow's  friends  ?  It  isn't  likely  he's  doing  his  dirty  work 
alone.  How  about  his  friends,  when  he  doesn't  turn  up 
to-night  ?  If  they  know  he  was  coming  here  to  spy  on  us; 
if  they  know  where  the  place  is;  if  they  know,  in  short, 
what  he  seems  to  have  known,  we're  done  for.  We'll 
have  to  run,  get  out,  disappear.  Hang  it,  man,  d'you 
understand  ?  We're  not  safe  here  for  an  hour." 

Captain  Stewart's  hands  shook  a  little  as  he  gripped 
them  together  behind  him,  and  a  dew  of  perspiration  stood 
out  suddenly  upon  his  forehead  and  cheek-bones,  but  his 
voice,  when  he  spoke,  was  well  under  control. 

"It's  an  odd  thing,"  said  he — "another  miracle,  if  you 
like — but  I  believe  we  are  safe — reasonably  safe.  I — have 
reason  to  think  that  this  fellow  learned  about  La  Lierre 
only  last  evening  from  some  one  who  left  Paris  to-day  to 
be  gone  a  long  time.  And  I  also  have  reason  to  believe 
that  the  fellow  has  not  seen  the  one  friend  who  is  in  his 
confidence,  since  he  obtained  his  information.  By  chance 
I  met  the  friend,  the  other  man,  in  the  street  this  after 
noon.  I  asked  after  this  fellow  whom  we  have  here,  and 
the  friend  said  he  hadn't  seen  him  for  twenty-four  hours 
— was  going  to  see  him  to-night." 

182 


JASON 

"By  the  Lord!"  cried  the  Irishman,  with  a  great  laugh 
of  relief.  "What  luck!  What  monumental  luck!  If  all 
that's  true,  we're  safe.  Why,  man,  we're  as  safe  as  a  fox 
in  his  hole.  The  lad's  friends  won't  have  the  ghost  of  an 
idea  of  where  he's  gone  to.  ...  Wait,  though!  Stop  a 
bit!  He  won't  have  left  written  word  behind  him,  eh  ? 
He  won't  have  done  that — for  safety  ?" 

"I  think  not,"  said  Captain  Stewart,  but  he  breathed 
hard,  for  he  knew  well  enough  that  there  lay  the  gravest 
danger.  "I  think  not,"  he  said  again. 

He  made  a  rather  surprisingly  accurate  guess  at  the 
truth — that  Ste.  Marie  had  started  out  upon  impulse,  with 
out  intending  more  than  a  general  reconnaissance,  and 
therefore  without  leaving  any  word  behind  him.  Still,  the 
shadow  of  danger  uplifted  itself  before  the  man  and  he  was 
afraid.  A  sudden  gust  of  weak  anger  shook  him  like  a 
wind. 

"In  Heaven's  name,"  he  cried,  shrilly,  "why  didn't  that 
one-eyed  fool  kill  the  fellow  while  he  was  about  it  ?  There's 
danger  for  us  every  moment  while  he  is  alive  here.  Why 
didn't  that  shambling  idiot  kill  him  ?" 

Captain  Stewart's  outflung  hand  jumped  and  trembled 
and  his  face  was  twisted  into  a  sort  of  grinning  snarl.  He 
looked  like  an  angry  and  wicked  cat,  the  other  man  thought. 

"If  I  weren't  an  over-civilized  fool,"  he  said,  viciously, 
"I'd  go  up-stairs  and  kill  him  now  with  my  hands  while  he 
can't  help  himself.  We're  all  too  scrupulous  by  half." 

The  Irishman  stared  at  him  and  presently  broke  into 
amazed  laughter. 

"Scrupulous!"  said  he.  "Well,  yes,  I'm  too  scrupulous 
to  murder  a  man  in  his  bed,  if  you  like.  I'm  not  squeam 
ish,  but—  Good  Lord!" 

13  183 


JASON 

"Do  you  realize,"  demanded  Captain  Stewart,  "what 
risks  we  run  while  that  fellow  is  alive — knowing  what  he 
knows  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  realize  that,"  said  O'Hara.  "But  I  don't 
see  why  you  should  have  heart  failure  over  it." 

Captain  Stewart's  pale  lips  drew  back  again  in  their 
catlike  fashion. 

"Never  mind  about  me,"  he  said.  "But  I  can't  help 
thinking  you're  peculiarly  indifferent  in  the  face  of  danger." 

"No,  I'm  not!"  said  the  Irishman,  quickly.  "No,  I'm 
not.  Don't  you  run  away  with  that  idea!  I  merely  said," 
he  went  on — "I  merely  said  that  I'd  stop  short  of  murder. 
I  don't  set  any  foolish  value  on  life — my  own  or  any  other. 
I've  had  to  take  life  more  than  once,  but  it  was  in  fair  fight 
or  in  self-defence,  and  I  don't  regret  it.  It  was  your  cold 
blooded  joke  about  going  up-stairs  and  killing  this  chap  in 
his  bed  that  put  me  on  edge.  Naturally  I  know  you  didn't 
mean  it.  Don't  you  go  thinking  that  I'm  lukewarm  or  that 
I'm  indifferent  to  danger.  I  know  there's  danger  from  this 
lad  up-stairs,  and  I  mean  to  be  on  guard  against  it.  He 
stays  here  under  strict  guard  until — what  we're  after  is  ac 
complished — until  young  Arthur  comes  of  age.  If  there's 
danger,"  said  he,  "why,  we  know  where  it  lies,  and  we  can 
guard  against  it.  That  kind  of  danger  is  not  very  formi 
dable.  The  dangerous  dangers  are  the  ones  that  you  don't 
know  about — the  hidden  ones." 

He  came  forward  a  little,  and  his  lean  face  was  as  hard 
and  as  impassive  as  ever,  and  the  bright  blue  eyes  shone 
from  it  steady  and  unwinking.  Stewart  looked  up  to  him 
with  a  sort  of  peevish  resentment  at  the  man's  confidence 
and  cool  poise.  It  was  an  odd  reversal  of  their  ordinary 
relations.  For  the  hour  the  duller  villain,  the  man  who  was 

184 


JASON 

wont  to  take  orders  and  to  refrain  from  overmuch  thought 
or  question,  seemed  to  have  become  master.  Sheer  phys 
ical  exhaustion  and  the  constant  maddening  pain  had  had 
their  will  of  Captain  Stewart.  A  sudden  shiver  wrung  him 
so  that  his  dry  fingers  rattled  against  the  wood  of  the  chair- 
arms. 

"All  the  same,"  he  cried,  "I'm  afraid.  I've  been  con 
fident  enough  until  now.  Now  I'm  afraid.  I  wish  the 
fellow  had  been  killed." 

"Kill  him,  then!"  laughed  the  Irishman.  "I  won't  give 
you  up  to  the  police." 

He  crossed  the  room  to  the  door,  but  halted  short  of  it 
and  turned  about  again,  and  he  looked  back  very  curiously 
at  the  man  who  sat  crouched  in  his  chair  by  the  window. 
It  had  occurred  to  him  several  times  that  Stewart  was  very 
unlike  himself.  The  man  was  quite  evidently  tired  and 
ill,  and  that  might  account  for  some  of  the  nervousness, 
but  this  fierce  malignity  was  something  a  little  beyond 
O'Hara's  comprehension.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  elder 
man  had  the  air  of  one  frightened  beyond  the  point  the 
circumstances  warranted. 

"Are  you  going  back  to  town,"  he  asked,  "or  do  you 
mean  to  stay  the  night  ?" 

"I  shall  stay  the  night,"  Stewart  said.  "I'm  too  tired 
to  bear  the  ride."  He  glanced  up  and  caught  the  other's 
eyes  fixed  upon  him.  "Well!"  he  cried,  angrily.  "What 
is  it  ?  What  are  you  looking  at  me  like  that  for  ?  What 
do  you  want  ?" 

"I  want  nothing,"  said  the  Irishman,  a  little  sharply. 
"And  I  wasn't  aware  that  I'd  been  looking  at  you  in  any 
unusual  way.  You're  precious  jumpy  to-day,  if  you  want 
to  know.  .  .  .  Look  here!"  He  came  back  a  step,  frowning. 

185 


JASON 

''Look  here!"  he  repeated.  "I  don't  quite  make  you  out. 
Are  you  keeping  back  anything  ?  Because  if  you  are,  for 
Heaven's  sake  have  it  out  here  and  now!  We're  all  in  this 
game  together,  and  we  can't  afford  to  be  anything  but  frank 
with  one  another.  We  can't  afford  to  make  reservations. 
It's  altogether  too  dangerous  for  everybody.  You're  too 
much  frightened.  There's  no  apparent  reason  for  being 
so  frightened  as  that." 

Captain  Stewart  drew  a  long  breath  between  closed 
teeth,  and  afterward  he  looked  up  at  the  younger  man 
coldly. 

"We  need  not  discuss  my  personal  feelings,  I  think," 
said  he.  "They  have  no — no  bearing  on  the  point  at 
issue.  As  you  say,  we  are  all  in  this  thing  together,  and 
you  need  not  fear  that  I  shall  fail  to  do  my  part,  as  I  have 
done  it  in  the  past.  .  .  .  That's  all,  I  believe." 

"Oh,  as  you  like!  As  you  like!"  said  the  Irishman,  in 
the  tone  of  one  rebuffed.  He  turned  again  and  left  the 
room,  closing  the  door  behind  him.  Outside  on  the  stairs 
it  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  forgotten  to  ask  the  other 
man  what  this  fellow's  name  was — the  fellow  who  lay 
wounded  up-stairs.  No,  he  had  asked  once,  but  in  the 
interest  of  the  conversation  the  question  had  been  lost. 
He  determined  to  inquire  again  that  evening  at  dinner. 

But  Captain  Stewart,  left  thus  alone,  sank  deeper  in  the 
uncomfortable  chair,  and  his  head  once  more  stirred  and 
sought  vainly  for  ease  against  the  chair's  high  back.  The 
pain  swept  him  in  regular  throbbing  waves  that  were  like 
the  waves  of  the  sea — waves  which  surge  and  crash  and 
tear  upon  a  beach.  But  between  the  throbs  of  physical 
pain  there  was  something  else  that  was  always  present 
while  the  waves  came  and  went.  Pain  and  exhaustion,  if 

186 


JASON 

they  are  sufficiently  extreme,  can  well  nigh  paralyze  mind 
as  well  as  body,  and  for  some  time  Captain  Stewart  won 
dered  what  this  thing  might  be  which  lurked  at  the  bottom 
of  him  still  under  the  surges  of  agony.  Then  at  last  he  had 
the  strength  to  look  at  it,  and  it  was  fear,  cold  and  still  and 
silent.  He  was  afraid  to  the  very  depths  of  his  soul. 

True,  as  O'Hara  had  said,  there  did  not  seem  to  be  any 
very  desperate  peril  to  face,  but  Stewart  was  afraid  with 
the  gambler's  unreasoning,  half-superstitious  fear,  and  that 
is  the  worst  fear  of  all.  He  realized  that  he  had  been  afraid 
of  Ste.  Marie  from  the  beginning,  and  that,  of  course,  was 
why  he  had  tried  to  draw  him  into  partnership  with  him 
self  in  his  own  official  and  wholly  mythical  search  for  Arthur 
Benham.  He  could  have  had  the  other  man  under  his  eye 
then.  He  could  have  kept  him  busy  for  months  running 
down  false  scents.  As  it  was,  Ste.  Marie's  uncanny  in 
stinct  about  the  Irishman  O'Hara  had  led  him  true — that 
and  what  he  doubtless  learned  from  Olga  Nilssen. 

If  Stewart  had  been  in  a  condition  and  mood  to  philoso 
phize,  he  would  doubtless  have  reflected  that  seven-tenths 
of  the  desperate  causes,  both  good  and  bad,  which  fail  in 
this  world,  fail  because  they  are  wrecked  by  some  woman's 
love  or  jealousy — or  both.  But  it  is  unlikely  that  he  was 
able  just  at  this  time  to  make  such  a  reflection,  though  cer 
tainly  he  wondered  how  much  Olga  Nilssen  had  known, 
and  how  much  Ste.  Marie  had  had  to  put  together  out  of 
her  knowledge  and  any  previous  suspicions  which  he  may 
have  had. 

The  man  would  have  been  amazed  if  he  could  have 
known  what  a  mountain  of  information  and  evidence  had 
piled  itself  up  over  his  head  all  in  twelve  hours.  He  would 
have  been  amazed  and,  if  possible,  even  more  frightened 

187 


JASON 

than  he  was,  but  he  was  without  question  sufficiently 
frightened,  for  here  was  Ste.  Marie  in  the  very  house,  he 
had  seen  Arthur  Benham,  and  quite  obviously  he  knew  all 
there  was  to  know,  or  at  least  enough  to  ruin  Arthur  Ben- 
ham's  uncle  beyond  all  recovery  or  hope  of  recovery — 
irretrievably. 

Captain  Stewart  tried  to  think  what  it  would  mean  to 
him — failure  in  this  desperate  scheme — but  he  had  not  the 
strength  or  the  courage.  He  shrank  from  the  picture  as 
one  shrinks  from  something  horrible  in  a  bad  dream. 
There  could  be  no  question  of  failure.  He  had  to  succeed 
at  any  cost,  however  desperate  or  fantastic.  Once  more  the 
spasm  of  childish,  futile  rage  swept  over  him  and  shook 
him  like  a  wind. 

"Why  couldn't  the  fellow  have  been  killed  by  that  one- 
eyed  fool?"  he  cried,  sobbing.  "Why  couldn't  he  have 
been  killed  ?  He's  the  only  one  who  knows— the  only 
thing  in  the  way.  Why  couldn't  he  have  keen  killed  ?" 

Quite  suddenly  Captain  Stewart  ceased  to  sob  and  shiver, 
and  sat  still  in  his  chair,  gripping  the  arms  with  white  and 
tense  fingers.  His  eyes  began  to  widen,  and  they  became 
fixed  in  a  long,  strange  stare.  He  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"I  wonder!"  he  said,  aloud.     "I  wonder,  now." 


XVI 

THE   BLACK  CAT 

THAT  providential  stone  or  tree-root,  or  whatever  it 
may  have  been,  proved  a  genuine  blessing  in  disguise 
to  Ste.  Marie.  It  gave  him  a  splitting  headache  for  a  few 
hours,  but  it  saved  him  a  good  deal  of  discomfort  the  while 
his  bullet  wound  was  being  more  or  less  probed  and  very 
skilfully  cleansed  and  dressed  by  O'Hara.  For  he  did  not 
regain  consciousness  until  this  surgical  work  was  almost 
at  its  end,  and  then  he  wanted  to  fight  the  Irishman  for 
tying  the  bandages  too  tight. 

But  when  O'Hara  had  gone  away  and  left  him  alone  he 
lay  still — or  as  still  as  the  smarting,  burning  pain  in  his 
leg  and  the  ache  in  his  head  would  let  him — and  stared  at 
the  wall  beyond  his  bed,  and  bit  by  bit  the  events  of  the 
past  hour  came  back  to  him,  and  he  knew  where  he  was. 
He  cursed  himself  very  bitterly,  as  he  well  might  do,  for  a 
bungling  idiot.  The  whole  thing  had  been  in  his  hands, 
he  said,  with  perfect  truth — Arthur  Benham's  whereabouts 
proved  Stewart's  responsibility  or,  at  the  very  least,  com 
plicity  and  the  sordid  motive  therefor.  Remained — had 
Ste.  Marie  been  a  sane  being  instead  of  an  impulsive  fool — 
remained  but  to  face  Stewart  down  in  the  presence  of 
witnesses,  threaten  him  with  exposure,  and  so,  with  perfect 
ease,  bring  back  the  lost  boy  in  triumph  to  his  family. 

189 


JASON 

It  should  all  have  been  so  simple,  so  easy,  so  effortless! 
Yet  now  it  was  ruined  by  a  moment's  rash  folly,  and  Heaven 
alone  knew  what  would  come  of  it.  He  remembered  that 
he  had  left  behind  him  no  indication  whatever  of  where  he 
meant  to  spend  the  afternoon.  Hartley  would  come  hurry 
ing  across  town  that  evening  to  the  rue  d'Assas,  and  would 
find  no  one  there  to  receive  him.  He  would  wait  and  wait, 
and  at  last  go  home.  He  would  come  again  on  the  next 
morning,  and  then  he  would  begin  to  be  alarmed  and 
would  start  a  second  search  —  but  with  what  to  reck 
on  by  ?  Nobody  knew  about  the  house  on  the  road 
to  Clamart  but  Mile.  Olga  Nilssen,  and  she  was  far 
away. 

He  thought  of  Captain  Stewart,  and  he  wondered  if 
that  gentleman  was  by  any  chance  here  in  the  house,  or 
if  he  was  still  in  bed  in  the  rue  du  Faubourg  St.  Honore, 
recovering  from  his  epileptic  fit. 

After  that  he  fell  once  more  to  cursing  himself  and  his 
incredible  stupidity,  and  he  could  have  wept  for  sheer  bit 
terness  of  chagrin. 

He  was  still  engaged  in  this  unpleasant  occupation  when 
the  door  of  the  room  opened  and  the  Irishman  O'Hara 
entered,  having  finished  his  interview  with  Captain  Stewart 
below.  He  came  up  beside  the  bed  and  looked  down  not 
unkindly  upon  the  man  who  lay  there,  but  Ste.  Marie 
scowled  back  at  him,  for  he  was  in  a  good  deal  of  pain  and 
a  vile  humor. 

"How's  the  leg — and  the  head?"  asked  the  amateur 
surgeon.  To  do  him  justice,  he  was  very  skilful,  indeed, 
through  much  experience. 

"They  hurt,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  shortly.  "My  head  aches 
like  the  devil,  and  my  leg  burns." 

190 


JASON 

O'Hara  made  a  sound  which  was  rather  like  a  gruff 
laugh,  and  nodded. 

"Yes,  and  they'll  go  on  doing  it,  too,"  said  he.  "At 
least  the  leg  will.  Your  head  will  be  all  right  again  in  a 
day  or  so.  Do  you  want  anything  to  eat  ?  It's  near  din 
ner-time.  I  suppose  we  can't  let  you  starve — though  you 
deserve  it." 

"Thanks;  I  want  nothing,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "Pray 
don't  trouble  about  me." 

The  other  man  nodded  again  indifferently  and  turned 
to  go  out  of  the  room,  but  in  the  doorway  he  halted  and 
looked  back. 

"As  we're  to  have  the  pleasure  of  your  company  for 
some  time  to  come,"  said  he,  "you  might  suggest  a  name 
to  call  you  by.  Of  course  I  don't  expect  you  to  tell  your 
own  name — though  I  can  learn  that  easily  enough." 

"Easily  enough,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  man  on  the  bed. 
"Ask  Stewart.  He  knows  only  too  well." 

The  Irishman  scowled.     And  after  a  moment  he  said: 

"I  don't  know  any  Stewart." 

But  at  that  Ste.  Marie  gave  a  laugh,  and  a  tinge  of  red 
came  over  the  Irishman's  cheeks. 

"And  so,  to  save  Captain  Stewart  the  trouble,"  con 
tinued  the  wounded  man,  "I'll  tell  you  my  name  with 
pleasure.  I  don't  know  why  I  shouldn't.  It's  Ste. 
Marie." 

"What?"  cried  O'Hara,  hoarsely.  "What?  Say  that 
again!" 

He  came  forward  a  swift  step  or  two  into  the  room,  and 
he  stared  at  the  man  on  the  bed  as  if  he  were  staring  at  a 
ghost. 

"Ste.  Marie?"  he  cried,  in  a  whisper.  "It's  impossible! 

191 


JASON 

What  are  you,"  he  demanded,  "to  Gilles,  Comte  de  Ste. 
Marie  de  Mont-Perdu  ?     What  are  you  to  him  ?" 

"He  was  my  father,"  said  the  younger  man;  "but  he  is 
dead.  He  has  been  dead  for  ten  years." 

He  raised  his  head,  with  a  little  grimace  of  pain,  to  look 
curiously  after  the  Irishman,  who  had  all  at  once  turned 
away  across  the  room  and  stood  still  beside  a  window  with 
bent  head. 

"Why?"  he  questioned.  "What  about  my  father? 
Why  did  you  ask  that  ?" 

O'Hara  did  not  answer  at  once,  and  he  did  not  stir  from 
his  place  by  the  window,  but  after  a  while  he  said: 

"I  knew  him.  .  .  .  That's  all." 

And  after  another  space  he  came  back  beside  the  bed, 
and  once  more  looked  down  upon  the  young  man  who  lay 
there.  His  face  was  veiled,  inscrutable.  It  betrayed 
nothing. 

"You  have  a  look  of  your  father,"  said  he.  "That  was 
what  puzzled  me  a  little.  I  was  just  saying  to — I  was  just 
thinking  that  there  was  something  familiar  about  you.  .  .  . 
Ah,  well,  we've  all  come  down  in  the  world  since  then.  The 
Ste.  Marie  blood,  though.  Who'd  have  thought  it  ?" 

The  man  shook  his  head  a  little  sorrowfully,  but  Ste. 
Marie  stared  up  at  him  in  frowning  incomprehension.  The 
pain  had  dulled  him  somewhat.  And  presently  O'Hara 
again  moved  toward  the  door.  On  the  way  he  said : 

"I'll  bring  or  send  you  something  to  eat — not  too  much. 
And  later  on  I'll  give  you  a  sleeping-powder.  With  that 
head  of  yours  you  may  have  trouble  in  getting  to  sleep. 
Understand,  I'm  doing  this  for  your  father's  son,  and  not 
because  you've  any  right  yourself  to  consideration." 

Ste.  Marie  raised  himself  with  difficulty  on  one  elbow. 

192 


JASON 

"Wait!"  said  he.  "Wait  a  moment!"  and  the  other 
halted  just  inside  the  door.  "You  seem  to  have  known 
my  father,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  "and  to  have  respected  him. 
For  my  father's  sake,  will  you  listen  to  me  for  five  minutes  ?" 

"No,  I  won't,"  said  the  Irishman,  sharply.  "So  you 
may  as  well  hold  your  tongue.  Nothing  you  can  say  to 
me  or  to  any  one  in  this  house  will  have  the  slightest  effect. 
We  know  what  you  came  spying  here  for.  We  know  all 
about  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  with  a  little  sigh,  and  he  fell  back 
upon  the  pillows.  "Yes,  I  suppose  you  do.  I  was  rather 
a  fool  to  speak.  You  wouldn't  all  be  doing  what  you're 
doing  if  words  could  affect  you.  I  was  a  fool  to  speak." 

The  Irishman  stared  at  him  for  another  moment,  and 
went  out  of  the  room,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 

So  he  was  left  once  more  alone  to  his  pain  and  his  bitter 
self-reproaches  and  his  wild  and  futile  plans  for  escape. 
But  O'Hara  returned  in  an  hour  or  thereabout  with  food 
for  him — a  cup  of  broth  and  a  slice  of  bread;  and  when  Ste. 
Marie  had  eaten  these  the  Irishman  looked  once  more  to 
his  wounded  leg,  and  gave  him  a  sleeping-powder  dissolved 
in  water. 

He  lay  restless  and  wide-eyed  for  an  hour,  and  then  drifted 
away  through  intermediate  mists  into  a  sleep  full  of  horrible 
dreams,  but  it  was  at  least  relief  from  bodily  suffering,  and 
when  he  awoke  in  the  morning  his  headache  was  almost 
gone. 

He  awoke  to  sunshine  and  fresh,  sweet  odors  and  the 
twittering  of  birds.  By  good  chance  O'Hara  had  been  the 
last  to  enter  the  room  on  the  evening  before,  and  so  no  one 
had  come  to  close  the  shutters  or  draw  the  blinds.  The 
windows  were  open  wide,  and  the  morning  breeze,  very  soft 

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JASON 

and  aromatic,  blew  in  and  out  and  filled  the  place  with 
sweetness.  The  room  was  a  corner  room,  with  windows 
that  looked  south  and  east,  and  the  early  sun  slanted  in  and 
lay  in  golden  squares  across  the  floor. 

Ste.  Marie  opened  his  eyes  with  none  of  the  dazed  be 
wilderment  that  he  might  have  expected.  The  events  of 
the  preceding  day  came  back  to  him  instantly  and  without 
shock.  He  put  up  an  experimental  hand,  and  found  that 
his  head  was  still  very  sore  where  he  had  struck  it  in  falling, 
but  the  ache  was  almost  gone.  He  tried  to  stir  his  leg,  and 
a  protesting  pain  shot  through  it.  It  burned  dully,  even 
when  it  was  quiet,  but  the  pain  was  not  at  all  severe.  He 
realized  that  he  was  to  get  off  rather  well,  considering  what 
might  have  happened,  and  he  was  so  grateful  for  this  that 
he  almost  forgot  to  be  angry  with  himself  over  his  monumen 
tal  folly. 

A  small  bird  chased  by  another  wheeled  in  through  the 
southern  window  and  back  again  into  free  air.  Finally, 
the  two  settled  down  upon  the  parapet  of  the  little  shallow 
balcony  which  was  there  to  have  their  disagreement  out, 
and  they  talked  it  over  with  a  great  deal  of  noise  and  many 
threatening  gestures  and  a  complete  loss  of  temper  on  both 
sides.  Ste.  Marie,  from  his  bed,  cheered  them  on,  but  there 
came  a  commotion  in  the  ivy  which  draped  the  wall  below, 
and  the  two  birds  fled  in  ignominious  haste,  and  just  in  the 
nick  of  time,  for  when  the  cause  of  the  commotion  shot  into 
view  it  was  a  large  black  cat,  of  great  bodily  activity  and  an 
ardent  single-heartedness  of  aim. 

The  black  cat  gazed  for  a  moment  resentfully  after  its 
vanished  prey,  and  then  composed  its  sleek  body  upon  the 
iron  rail,  tail  and  paws  tucked  neatly  under.  Ste.  Marie 
chirruped,  and  the  cat  turned  yellow  eyes  upon  him  in  mild 

194 


JASON 

astonishment,  as  one  who  should  say,  "Who  the  deuce  are 
you,  and  what  the  deuce  are  you  doing  here  ?"  He  chir 
ruped  again,  and  the  cat,  after  an  ostentatious  yawn  and 
stretch,  came  to  him — beating  up  to  windward,  as  it  were, 
and  making  the  bed  in  three  tacks.  When  O'Hara  en 
tered  the  room  some  time  later  he  found  his  patient  in  a 
very  cheerful  frame  of  mind,  and  the  black  cat  sitting  on 
his  chest  purring  like  a  dynamo  and  kneading  like  an  in 
dustrious  baker. 

"Ho,"  said  the  Irishman,  "you  seem  to  have  found  a 
friend!" 

"Well,  I  need  one  friend  here,"  argued  Ste.  Marie. 
"I'm  in  the  enemy's  stronghold.  You  needn't  be  alarmed; 
the  cat  can't  tell  me  anything,  and  it  can't  help  me  to  escape. 
It  can  only  sit  on  me  and  purr.  That's  harmless  enough." 

O'Hara  began  one  of  his  gruff  laughs,  but  he  seemed  to 
remember  himself  in  the  middle  of  it  and  assumed  an  in 
timidating  scowl  instead. 

"How's  the  leg?"  he  demanded,  shortly.  "Let  me  see 
it."  He  took  off  the  bandages  and  cleansed  and  sprayed 
the  wound  with  some  antiseptic  liquid  that  he  had  brought 
in  a  bottle.  "There's  a  little  fever,"  said  he,  "but  that  can't 
be  avoided.  You're  going  on  very  well — a  good  deal  better 
than  you'd  any  right  to  expect."  He  had  to  inflict  not  a 
little  pain  in  his  examination  and  redressing  of  the  wound. 
He  knew  that,  and  once  or  twice  he  glanced  up  at  Ste. 
Marie's  face  with  a  sort  of  reluctant  admiration  for  the  man 
who  could  bear  so  much  without  any  sign  whatever.  In  the 
end  he  put  together  his  things  and  nodded  with  professional 
satisfaction.  "You'll  do  well  enough  now  for  the  rest  of 
the  day,"  he  said.  "I'll  send  up  old  Michel  to  valet  you. 
He's  the  gardener  who  shot  you  yesterday,  and  he  may  take 

'95 


JASON 

it  into  his  head  to  finish  the  job  this  morning.  If  he  does  I 
sha'n't  try  to  stop  him." 

"Nor  I,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "Thanks  very  much  for  your 
trouble.  An  excellent  surgeon  was  lost  in  you." 

O'Hara  left  the  room,  and  presently  the  old  caretaker, 
one-eyed,  gnomelike,  shambling  like  a  bear,  sidled  in  and 
proceeded  to  set  things  to  rights.  He  looked,  Ste.  Marie 
said  to  himself,  like  something  in  an  old  German  drawing, 
or  in  those  imitations  of  old  drawings  that  one  sometimes 
sees  nowadays  in  Fliegende  Blatter.  He  tried  to  make 
the  strange  creature  talk,  but  Michel  went  about  his  task 
with  an  air  half-frightened,  half-stolid,  and  refused  to  speak 
more  than  an  occasional  "  oui  "  or  a  "bien,  Monsieur,"  in 
answer  to  orders.  Ste.  Marie  asked  if  he  might  have  some 
coffee  and  bread,  and  the  old  Michel  nodded  and  slipped 
from  the  room  as  silently  as  he  had  entered  it. 

Thereafter  Ste.  Marie  trifled  with  the  cat  and  got  one 
hand  well  scratched  for  his  trouble,  but  in  five  minutes 
there  came  a  knocking  at  the  door.  He  laughed  a  little. 
''Michel  grows  ceremonious  when  it's  a  question  of  food," 
he  said.  "Entrez,  mon  vieux!" 

The  door  opened,  and  Ste.  Marie  caught  his  breath. 

"Michel  is  busy,"  said  Coira  O'Hara,  "so  I  have  brought 
your  coffee." 

She  came  into  the  sunlit  room  holding  the  steaming  bowl 
of  cafe  au  lait  before  her  in  her  two  hands.  Over  it  her 
eyes  went  out  to  the  man  who  lay  in  his  bed,  a  long  and 
steady  and  very  grave  look.  "A  goddess  that  lady,  a  queen 
among  goddesses —  Thus  the  little  Jew  of  the  Boule 
vard  de  la  Madeleine.  Ste.  Marie  gazed  back  at  her,  and 
his  heart  was  sick  within  him  to  think  of  the  contemptible 
role  Fate  had  laid  upon  this  girl  to  play:  the  candle  to  the 

196 


JASON 

moth,  the  bait  to  the  eager,  unskilled  fish,  the  lure  to  charm 
a  foolish  boy. 

The  girl's  splendid  beauty  seemed  to  fill  all  that  bright 
room  with,  as  it  were,  a  richer,  subtler  light.  There  could 
be  no  doubt  of  her  potency.  Older  and  wiser  heads  than 
young  Arthur  Benham's  might  well  forget  the  world  for  her. 
Ste.  Marie  watched,  and  the  heartsickness  within  him  was 
like  a  physical  pain,  keen  and  bitter.  He  thought  of  that 
first  and  only  previous  meeting — the  single  minute  in  the 
Champs-Elysees,  when  her  eyes  had  held  him,  had  seemed 
to  beseech  him  out  of  some  deep  agony.  He  thought  of 
how  they  had  haunted  him  afterward  both  by  day  and  by 
night — calling  eyes — and  he  gave  a  little  groan  of  sheer 
bitterness,  for  he  realized  that  all  this  while  she  was  laying 
her  snares  about  the  feet  of  an  inexperienced  boy,  decoying 
him  to  his  ruin.  There  was  a  name  for  such  women,  an 
ugly  name.  They  were  called  adventuresses. 

The  girl  set  the  bowl  which  she  carried  down  upon  a  table 
not  far  from  the  bed.  "You  will  need  a  tray  or  some 
thing,"  said  she.  "I  suppose  you  can  sit  up  against  your 
pillows  ?  I'll  bring  a  tray  and  you  can  hold  it  on  your  knees 
and  eat  from  it."  She  spoke  in  a  tone  of  very  deliberate  in 
difference  and  detachment.  There  seemed  even  to  be  an 
edge  of  scorn  in  it,  but  nothing  could  make  that  deep  and 
golden  voice  harsh  or  unlovely.  As  the  girl's  extraordinary 
beauty  had  filled  all  the  room  with  its  light,  so  the  sound 
of  her  voice  seemed  to  fill  it  with  a  sumptuous  and  hushed 
resonance  like  a  temple  bell  muffled  in  velvet.  "I  must 
bring  something  to  eat,  too,"  she  said.  "Would  you  prefer 
croissants  or  brioches  or  plain  bread-and-butter?  You 
might  as  well  have  what  you  like." 

"Thank  you!"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "It  doesn't  matter. 

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JASON 

Anything.  You  are  most  kind.  You  are  Hebe,  Made 
moiselle,  server  of  feasts."  The  girl  turned  her  head  for 
a  moment  and  looked  at  him  with  some  surprise. 

"If  I  am  not  mistaken,"  she  said,  "Hebe  served  to  gods." 
Then  she  went  out  of  the  room,  and  Ste.  Marie  broke  into 
a  sudden  delighted  laugh  behind  her.  She  would  seem  to 
be  a  young  woman  with  a  tongue  in  her  head.  She  had 
seized  the  rash  opening  without  an  instant's  hesitation. 

The  black  cat,  which  had  been  cruising,  after  the  inquisi 
tive  fashion  of  its  kind,  in  far  corners  of  the  room,  strolled 
back  and  looked  up  to  the  table  where  the  bowl  of  coffee 
steamed  and  waited. 

"Get  out!"  cried  Ste.  Marie.  "Va  t'en,  sale  petit  ani 
mal!  Go  and  eat  birds!  That's  my  coffee.  Va!  Sauve 
toi!  He,  voleur  que  tu  es!"  He  sought  for  something  by 
way  of  missile,  but  there  was  nothing  within  reach. 

The  black  cat  turned  its  calm  and  yellow  eyes  toward 
him,  looked  back  to  the  aromatic  feast,  and  leaped  ex 
pertly  to  the  top  of  the  table.  Ste.  Marie  shouted  and 
made  horrible  threats.  He  waved  an  impotent  pillow,  not 
daring  to  hurl  it  for  fear  of  smashing  the  table's  entire 
contents,  but  the  black  cat  did  not  even  glance  toward  him. 
It  smelled  the  coffee,  sneezed  over  it  because  it  was  hot, 
and  finally  proceeded  to  lap  very  daintily,  pausing  often  to 
take  breath  or  to  shake  its  head,  for  cats  disapprove  of  hot 
dishes,  though  they  will  partake  of  them  at  a  pinch. 

There  came  a  step  outside  the  door,  and  the  thief  leaped 
down  with  some  haste,  yet  not  quite  in  time  to  escape  ob 
servation.  Mile.  O'Hara  came  in,  breathing  terrible  threats. 

"Has  that  wretched  animal  touched  your  coffee?"  she 
cried.  "I  hope  not."  But  Ste.  Marie  laughed  weakly 
from  his  bed,  and  the  guilty  beast  stood  in  mid -floor, 

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JASON 

brown  drops  beading  its  black  chin  and  hanging  upon  its 
whiskers. 

"I  did  what  I  could,  Mademoiselle,"  said  Ste.  Marie, 
"but  there  was  nothing  to  throw.  I  am  sorry  to  be  the 
cause  of  so  much  trouble." 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  she.  "I  will  bring  some  more 
coffee,  only  it  will  take  ten  minutes,  because  I  shall  have  to 
make  some  fresh."  She  made  as  if  she  would  smile  a  little 
in  answer  to  him,  but  her  face  turned  grave  once  more  and 
she  went  out  of  the  room  with  averted  eyes. 

Thereafter  Ste.  Marie  occupied  himself  with  watching 
idly  the  movements  of  the  black  cat,  and,  as  he  watched, 
something  icy  cold  began  to  grow  within  him,  a  sensation 
more  terrible  than  he  had  ever  known  before.  He  found 
himself  shivering  as  if  that  summer  day  had  all  at  once 
turned  to  January,  and  he  found  that  his  face  was  wet  with 
a  chill  perspiration. 

When  the  girl  at  length  returned  she  found  him  lying 
still,  his  face  to  the  wall.  The  black  cat  was  in  her  path  as 
she  crossed  the  room,  so  that  she  had  to  thrust  it  out  of  the 
way  with  her  foot,  and  she  called  it  names  for  moving  with 
such  lethargy. 

"Here  is  the  coffee  at  last,"  she  said.  "I  made  it  fresh. 
And  I  have  brought  some  brioches.  Will  you  sit  up  and 
have  the  tray  on  your  knees  ?" 

"Thank  you,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "I  do  not  wish  any 
thing." 

"You  do  not — "  she  repeated  after  him.  "But  I  have 
made  the  coffee  especially  for  you,"  she  protested.  "I 
thought  you  wanted  it.  I  don't  understand." 

With  a  sudden  movement  the  man  turned  toward  her  a 
white  and  drawn  face. 

'4  199 


JASON 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  cried,  "it  would  have  been  more 
merciful  to  let  your  gardener  shoot  again  yesterday.  Much 
more  merciful,  Mademoiselle." 

She  stared  at  him  under  her  straight,  black  brows. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  demanded.  "More  merci 
ful  ?  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 

Ste.  Marie  stretched  out  a  pointing  finger,  and  the  girl 
followed  it.  She  gave,  after  a  tense  instant,  a  single, 
sharp  scream.  And  upon  that: 

"No,  no!     It's  not  true!     It's  not  possible!" 

Moving  stiffly,  she  set  down  the  bowl  she  carried,  and  the 
hot  liquid  splashed  up  round  her  wrists.  For  a  moment 
she  hung  there,  drooping,  holding  herself  up  by  the  strength 
of  her  hands  upon  the  table.  It  was  as  if  she  had  been 
seized  with  faintness.  Then  she  sprang  to  where  the  cat 
crouched  beside  a  chair.  She  dropped  upon  her  knees  and 
tried  to  raise  it  in  her  arms,  but  the  beast  bit  and  scratched 
at  her  feebly,  and  crept  away  to  a  little  distance,  where  it 
lay  struggling  and  very  unpleasant  to  see. 

"Poison!"  she  said,  in  a  choked,  gasping  whisper. 
"Poison!"  She  looked  once  toward  the  man  upon  the  bed, 
and  she  was  white  and  shivering.  "It's  not  true!"  she 
cried  again.  "I^won't  believe  it!  It's  because  the  cat — 
was  not  used  to  coffee.  Because  it  was  hot.  I  won't  be 
lieve  it!  I  won't  believe  it!"  She  began  to  sob,  holding 
her  hands  over  her  white  face. 

Ste.  Marie  watched  her  with  puzzled  eyes.  If  this  was 
acting,  it  was  very  good  acting.  A  little  glimmer  of  hope 
began  to  burn  in  him — hope  that  in  this  last  shameful 
thing,  at  least,  the  girl  had  had  no  part. 

"It's  impossible,"  she  insisted,  piteously.  "I  tell  you 
it's  impossible.  I  brought  the  coffee  myself  from  the 

200 


JASON 

kitchen.  I  took  it  from  the  pot  there — the  same  pot  we 
had  all  had  ours  from.  It  was  never  out  of  my  sight — or, 
that  is — I  mean — " 

She  halted  there,  and  Ste.  Marie  saw  her  eyes  turn  slow 
ly  toward  the  door,  and  he  saw  a  crimson  flush  come  up 
over  her  cheeks  and  die  away,  leaving  her  white  again. 
He  drew  a  little  breath  of  relief  and  gladness,  for  he  was 
sure  of  her  now.  She  had  had  no  part  in  it. 

"It  is  nothing,  Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  cheerfully. 
"Think  no  more  of  it.  It  is  nothing." 

"Nothing?"  she  cried,  in  a  loud  voice.  "Do  you  call 
poison  nothing  ?"  She  began  to  shiver  again  very  violently. 
"You  would  have  drunk  it!"  she  said,  staring  at  him  in  a 
white  agony.  "But  for  a  miracle  you  would  have  drunk 
it — and  died!" 

Abruptly  she  came  beside  the  bed  and  threw  herself 
upon  her  knees  there.  In  her  excitement  and  horror  she 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  what  they  two  were  to  each  other. 
She  caught  him  by  the  shoulders  with  her  two  hands,  and 
the  girl's  violent  trembling  shook  them  both. 

"Will  you  believe,"  she  cried,  "that  I  had  nothing  to  do 
with  this  ?  Will  you  believe  me  ?  You  must  believe  me!" 

There  was  no  acting  in  that  moment.  She  was  wrung 
with  a  frank  anguish,  an  utter  horror,  and  between  her 
words  there  were  hard  and  terrible  sobs. 

"I  believe  you,  Mademoiselle,"  said  the  man,  gently. 
"I  believe  you.  Pray  think  no  more  about  it." 

He  smiled  up  into  the  girl's  beautiful  face,  though  within 
him  he  was  still  cold  and  a-shiver,  as  even  the  bravest  man 
might  well  be  at  such  an  escape,  and  after  a  moment  she 
turned  away  again.  With  unsteady  hands  she  put  the 
new-made  bowl  of  coffee  and  the  brioches  and  other  things 

201 


JASON 

together  upon  the  tray  and  started  to  carry  it  across  the 
room  to  the  bed,  but  half-way  she  turned  back  again  and 
set  the  tray  down.  She  looked  about  and  found  an  empty 
glass,  and  she  poured  a  little  of  the  coffee  into  it.  Ste. 
Marie,  who  was  watching  her,  gave  a  sudden  cry. 

"No,  no,  Mademoiselle,  I  beg  you!     You  must  not!" 

But  the  girl  shook  her  head  at  him  gravely  over  the 
glass. 

"There  is  no  danger,"  she  said,  "but  I  must  be  sure." 

She  drank  what  was  in  the  glass,  and  afterward  went 
across  to  one  of  the  windows  and  stood  there  with  her 
back  to  the  room  for  a  little  time. 

In  the  end  she  returned  and  once  more  brought  the 
breakfast-tray  to  the  bed.  Ste.  Marie  raised  himself  to  a 
sitting  posture  and  took  the  thing  upon  his  knees,  but  his 
hands  were  shaking. 

"If  I  were  not  as  helpless  as  a  dead  man,  Mademoiselle," 
said  he,  "you  should  not  have  done  that.  If  I  could  have 
stopped  you,  you  should  not  have  done  it,  Mademoiselle." 

A  wave  of  color  spread  up  under  the  brown  skin  of  the 
girl's  face,  but  she  did  not  speak.  She  stood  by  for  a  mo 
ment  to  see  if  he  was  supplied  with  everything  he  needed, 
and  when  Ste.  Marie  expressed  his  gratitude  for  her  pains 
she  only  bowed  her  head.  Then  presently  she  turned 
away  and  left  the  room. 

Outside  the  door  she  met  some  one  who  was  approach 
ing.  Ste.  Marie  heard  her  break  into  rapid  and  excited 
speech,  and  he  heard  O'Hara's  voice  in  answer.  The 
voice  expressed  astonishment  and  indignation  and  a  sort 
of  gruff  horror,  but  the  man  who  listened  could  hear  only 
the  tones,  not  the  words  that  were  spoken. 

The  Irishman  came  quickly  into  the  room.  He  glanced 

202 


JASON 

once  toward  the  bed  where  Ste.  Marie  sat  eating  his  break 
fast  with  apparent  unconcern — there  may  have  been  a  lit 
tle  bravado  in  this — and  then  bent  over  the  thing  which 
lay  moving  feebly  beside  a  chair.  When  he  rose  again  his 
face  was  hard  and  tense  and  his  blue  eyes  glittered  in  a 
fashion  that  boded  trouble  for  somebody. 

"This  looks  very  bad  for  us,"  he  said,  gruffly.  "I  should 
— I  should  like  to  have  you  believe  that  neither  my  daughter 
nor  I  had  any  part  in  it.  When  I  fight  I  fight  openly,  I  don't 
use  poison.  Not  even  with  spies." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  taking  an  osten 
tatious  sip  of  coffee.  "That's  understood.  I  know  well 
enough  who  tried  to  poison  me.  If  you'll  just  keep  your 
friend  Stewart  out  of  the  kitchen  I  sha'n't  worry  about  my 
food." 

The  Irishman's  cheeks  reddened  with  a  quick  flush  and 
he  dropped  his  eyes.  But  in  an  instant  he  raised  them 
again  and  looked  full  into  the  eyes  of  the  man  who  sat  in 
bed. 

"You  seem,"  said  he,  "to  be  laboring  under  a  curious 
misapprehension.  There  is  no  Stewart  here,  and  I  don't 
know  any  man  of  that  name." 

Ste.  Marie  laughed. 

"Oh,  don't  you?"  he  said.  "That's  my  mistake  then. 
Well,  if  you  don't  know  him,  you  ought  to.  You  have  in 
terests  in  common." 

O'Hara  favored  his  patient  with  a  long  and  frowning 
stare.  But  at  the  end  he  turned  without  a  word  and  went 
out  of  the  room. 


XVII 

THOSE   WHO   WERE    LEFT   BEHIND 

THAT  meeting  with  Richard  Hartley  of  which  Captain 
Stewart,  in  the  small  drawing  -  room  at  La  Lierre, 
spoke  to  the  Irishman  O'Hara,  took  place  at  Stewart's 
own  door  in  the  rue  du  Faubourg  St.  Honore,  and  it  must 
have  been  at  just  about  the  time  when  Ste.  Marie,  concealed 
among  the  branches  of-  his  cedar,  looked  over  the  wall 
and  saw  Arthur  Benham  walking  with  Mile.  Coira  O'Hara- 
Hartley  had  lunched  at  Durand's  with  his  friends,  whose 
name — though  it  does  not  at  all  matter  here — was  Reeves- 
Davis,  and  after  lunch  the  four  of  them,  Major  and  Lady 
Reeves  -  Davis,  Reeves  -  Davis'  sister,  Mrs.  Carsten,  and 
Hartley,  spent  an  hour  at  a  certain  picture-dealer's  near 
the  Madeleine.  After  that  Lady  Reeves-Davis  wanted  to 
go  in  search  of  an  antiquary's  shop  which  was  somewhere 
in  the  rue  du  Faubourg,  and  she  did  not  know  just  where. 
They  went  in  from  the  rue  Royale,  and  amused  themselves 
by  looking  at  the  attractive  windows  on  the  way. 

During  one  of  their  frequent  halts,  while  the  two  ladies 
were  passionately  absorbed  in  a  display  of  hats,  and  Reeves- 
Davis  was  making  derisive  comments  from  the  rear,  Hartley, 
who  was  too  much  bored  to  pay  attention,  saw  a  figure  which 
seemed  to  him  familiar  emerge  from  an  adjacent  doorway 
and  start  to  cross  the  pavement  to  a  large  touring-car,  with 

204 


JASON 

the  top  up,  which  stood  at  the  curb.  The  man  wore  a  dust- 
coat  and  a  cap,  and  he  moved  as  if  he  were  in  a  hurry,  but 
as  he  went  he  cast  a  quick  look  about  him  and  his  eye  fell 
upon  Richard  Hartley.  Hartley  nodded,  and  he  thought 
the  elder  man  gave  a  violent  start;  but  then  he  looked  very 
white  and  ill  and  might  have  started  at  anything.  For  an 
instant  Captain  Stewart  made  as  if  he  would  go  on  his  way 
without  taking  notice,  but  he  seemed  to  change  his  mind 
and  turned  back.  He  held  out  his  hand  with  a  rather  wan 
and  nervous  smile,  saying: 

"Ah,  Hartley!  It  is  you,  then!  I  wasn't  sure."  He 
glanced  over  the  other's  shoulder  and  said,  "Is  that  our 
friend  Ste.  Marie  with  you  ?" 

"No,"  said  Richard  Hartley,  "some  English  friends  of 
mine.  I  haven't  seen  Ste.  Marie  to-day.  I'm  to  meet  him 
this  evening.  You've  seen  him  since  I  have,  as  a  matter 
of  fact.  He  came  to  your  party  last  night,  didn't  he  ? 
Sorry  I  couldn't  come.  They  must  have  tired  you  out,  I 
should  think.  You  look  ill." 

"Yes,"  said  the  other  man,  absently.  "Yes,  I  had  an 
attack  of — an  old  malady  last  night.  I  am  rather  stale 
to-day.  You  say  you  haven't  seen  Ste.  Marie  ?  No,  to 
be  sure.  If  you  see  him  later  on  you  might  say  that  I  mean 
to  drop  in  on  him  to-morrow  to  make  my  apologies.  He'll 
understand.  Good-day." 

So  he  turned  away  to  the  motor  which  was  waiting  for 
him,  and  Hartley  went  back  to  his  friends,  wondering  a 
little  what  it  was  that  Stewart  had  to  apologize  for. 

As  for  Captain  Stewart,  he  must  have  gone  at  once  out 
to  La  Lierre.  What  he  found  there  has  already  been  set 
forth. 

It  was  about  ten  that  evening  when  Hartley,  who  had 
205 


JASON 

left  his  people,  after  dinner  was  over,  at  the  Marigny,  reached 
the  rue  d'Assas.  The  street  door  was  already  closed  for 
the  night,  and  so  he  had  to  ring  for  the  cordon.  When  the 
door  clicked  open  and  he  had  closed  it  behind  him  he  called 
out  his  name  before  crossing  the  court  to  Ste. Marie's  stair; 
but  as  he  went  on  his  way  the  voice  of  the  concierge  reached 
him  from  the  little  loge. 

"M.  Ste.  Marie  n'est  pas  la," 

Now,  the  Parisian  concierge,  as  every  one  knows  who 
has  lived  under  his  iron  sway,  is  a  being  set  apart  from  the 
rest  of  mankind.  He  has,  in  general,  no  human  attributes, 
and  certainly  no  human  sympathy.  His  hand  is  against 
all  the  world,  and  the  hand  of  all  the  world  is  against  him. 
Still,  here  and  there  among  this  peculiar  race  are  to  be 
found  a  very  few  beings  who  are  of  softer  substance — men 
and  women  instead  of  spies  and  harpies.  The  concierge 
who  had  charge  of  the  house  wherein  Ste.  Marie  dwelt 
was  an  old  woman,  undeniably  severe  upon  occasion,  but 
for  the  most  part  a  kindly  and  even  jovial  soul.  She 
must  have  become  a  concierge  through  some  unfortunate 
mistake. 

She  snapped  open  her  little  square  window  and  stuck 
out  into  the  moonlit  court  a  dishevelled  gray  head. 

"II  n'est  pas  la."  she  said  again,  beaming  upon  Richard 
Hartley,  whom  she  liked,  and,  when  he  protested  that  he 
had  a  definite  and  important  appointment  with  her  lodger, 
went  on  to  explain  that  Ste.  Marie  had  gone  out,  doubtless 
to  lunch,  before  one  o'clock  and  had  never  returned. 

"He  may  have  left  word  for  me  up-stairs,"  Hartley  said; 
"I'll  go  up  and  wait,  if  I  may."  So  the  woman  got  him  her 
extra  key,  and  he  went  up,  let  himself  into  the  flat,  and  made 
lights  there. 

206 


JASON 

Naturally  he  found  no  word,  but  his  own  note  of  that 
morning  lay  spread  out  upon  a  table  where  Ste.  Marie  had 
left  it,  and  so  he  knew  that  his  friend  was  in  possession  of  the 
two  facts  he  had  learned  about  Stewart.  He  made  himself 
comfortable  with  a  book  and  some  cigarettes,  and  settled 
down  to  wait. 

Ste.  Marie  out  at  La  Lierre,  with  a  bullet-hole  in  his  leg, 
was  deep  in  a  drugged  sleep  just  then,  but  Hartley  waited 
for  him,  looking  up  now  and  then  from  his  book  with  a 
scowl  of  impatience,  until  the  little  clock  on  the  mantel 
said  that  it  was  one  o'clock.  Then  he  went  home  in  a  very 
bad  temper,  after  writing  another  note  and  leaving  it  on 
the  table,  to  say  that  he  would  return  early  in  the  morning. 

But  in  the  morning  he  began  to  be  alarmed.  He  ques 
tioned  the  concierge  very  closely  as  to  Ste.  Marie's  move 
ments  on  the  day  previous,  but  she  could  tell  him  little,  save 
to  mention  the  brief  visit  of  a  man  with  an  accent  of  Toulouse 
or  Marseilles,  and  there  seemed  to  be  no  one  else  to  whom 
he  could  go.  He  spent  the  entire  morning  in  the  flat,  and 
returned  there  after  a  hasty  lunch.  But  at  mid-afternoon 
he  took  a  fiacre  at  the  corner  of  the  Gardens  and  drove  to 
the  rue  du  Faubourg  St.  Honore. 

Captain  Stewart  was  at  home.  He  was  in  a  dressing- 
gown,  and  still  looked  fagged  and  unwell.  He  certainly  be 
trayed  some  surprise  at  sight  of  his  visitor,  but  he  made 
Hartley  welcome  at  once  and  insisted  upon  having  cigars 
and  things  to  drink  brought  out  for  him.  On  the  whole  he 
presented  an  astonishingly  normal  exterior,  for  within  him 
he  must  have  been  cold  with  fear,  and  in  his  ears  a  question 
must  have  rung  and  shouted  and  rung  again  unceasingly — 
"What  does  this  fellow  know?  What  does  he  know?" 

Hartley's  very  presence  there  had  a  perilous  look. 

207 


JASON 

The  younger  man  shook  his  head  at  the  servant  who  asked 
him  what  he  wished  to  drink. 

"Thanks,  you're  very  good,"  he  said  to  Captain  Stewart, 
and  that  gentleman  eyed  him  silently.  "I  can't  stay  but  a 
moment.  I  just  dropped  in  to  ask  if  you'd  any  idea  what 
can  have  become  of  Ste.  Marie." 

"Ste.  Marie?"  said  Captain  Stewart.  "What  do  you 
mean — 'become  of  him '  ?"  He  moistened  his  lips  to  speak, 
but  he  said  the  words  without  a  tremor. 

"Well,  what  I  meant  was,"  said  Hartley,  "that  you'd 
seen  him  last.  He  was  here  Thursday  evening.  Did  he 
say  anything  to  you  about  going  anywhere  in  particular  the 
next  day — yesterday  ?  He  left  his  rooms  about  noon  and 
hasn't  turned  up  since." 

Captain  Stewart  drew  a  short  breath  and  sat  down, 
abruptly,  in  a  near-by  chair,  for  all  at  once  his  knees  had 
begun  to  tremble  under  him.  He  was  conscious  of  a  great 
and  blissful  wave  of  relief  and  well-being,  and  he  wanted  to 
laugh.  He  wanted  so  much  to  laugh  that  it  became  a 
torture  to  keep  his  face  in  repose. 

So  Ste.  Marie  had  left  no  word  behind  him,  and  the 
danger  was  past! 

With  a  great  effort  he  looked  up  from  where  he  sat  to 
Richard  Hartley,  who  stood  anxious  and  frowning  before 
him. 

"Forgive  me  for  sitting  down,"  he  said,  "and  sit  down 
yourself,  I  beg.  I'm  still  very  shaky  from  my  attack  of 
illness.  Ste.  Marie  —  Ste.  Marie  has  disappeared  ?  How 
very  extraordinary!  It's  like  poor  Arthur.  Still — a  single 
day!  He  might  be  anywhere  for  a  single  day,  might  he  not  ? 
For  all  that,  though,  it's  very  odd.  Why,  no.  No,  I  don't 
think  he  said  anything  about  going  away.  At  least  I  re- 

208 


JASON 

member  nothing  about  it."  The  relief  and  triumph  within 
him  burst  out  in  a  sudden  little  chuckle  of  malicious  fun. 
"I  can  think  of  only  one  thing,"  said  he,  "that  might  be  of 
use  to  you.  Ste.  Marie  seemed  to  take  a  very  great  fancy 
to  one  of  the  ladies  here  the  other  evening.  And,  I  must 
confess,  the  lady  seemed  to  return  it.  It  had  all  the  look 
of  a  desperate  flirtation — a  most  desperate  flirtation.  They 
spent  the  evening  in  a  corner  together.  You  don't  sup 
pose,"  he  said,  still  chuckling  gently,  "that  Ste.  Marie  is 
taking  a  little  holiday,  do  you  ?  You  don't  suppose  that 
the  lady  could  account  for  him  ?" 

"No,"  said  Richard  Hartley,  "I  don't.  And  if  you  knew 
Ste.  Marie  a  little  better  you  wouldn't  suppose  it,  either." 
But  after  a  pause  he  said:  "Could  you  give  me  the — lady's 
name,  by  any  chance  ?  Of  course,  I  don't  want  to  leave 
any  stone  unturned." 

And  once  more  the  other  man  emitted  his  pleased  little 
chuckle  that  was  so  like  a  cat's  mew. 

"I  can  give  you  her  name,"  said  he.  "The  name  is 

Mile. Bertrand.  Elise  Bertrand.  But  I  regret  to 

say  I  haven't  the  address  by  me.  She  came  with  some 
friends.  I  will  try  and  get  it  and  send  it  you.  Will  that 
be  all  right?" 

"Yes,  thanks!"  said  Richard  Hartley.  "You're  very 
good.  And  now  I  must  be  going  on.  I'm  rather  in  a 
hurry." 

Captain  Stewart  protested  against  this  great  haste,  and 
pressed  the  younger  man  to  sit  down  and  tell  him  more 
about  his  friend's  disappearance,  but  Hartley  excused  him 
self,  repeating  that  he  was  in  a  great  hurry,  and  went  off. 

When  he  had  gone  Captain  Stewart  lay  back  in  his  chair 
and  laughed  until  he  was  weak  and  ached  from  it,  the 

209 


JASON 

furious,  helpless  laughter  which  comes  after  the  sudden 
release  from  a  terrible  strain.  He  was  not,  as  a  rule,  a 
demonstrative  man,  but  he  became  aware  that  he  would 
like  to  dance  and  sing,  and  probably  he  would  have  done 
both  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  servant  in  the  next  room. 

So  there  was  no  danger  to  be  feared,  and  his  terrors  of 
the  night  past — he  shivered  a  little  to  think  of  them — had 
been,  after  all,  useless  terrors!  As  for  the  prisoner  out  at 
La  Lierre,  nothing  was  to  be  feared  from  him  so  long  as  a 
careful  watch  was  kept.  Later  on  he  might  have  to  be 
disposed  of,  since  both  bullet  and  poison  had  failed — he 
scowled  over  that,  remembering  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour 
with  O'Hara  early  this  morning — but  that  matter  could 
wait.  Some  way  would  present  itself.  He  thought  of  the 
wholly  gratuitous  lie  he  had  told  Hartley,  a  thing  born  of 
a  moment's  malice,  and  he  laughed  again.  It  struck  him 
that  it  would  be  very  humorous  if  Hartley  should  come  to 
suspect  his  friend  of  turning  aside  from  his  great  endeavors 
to  enter  upon  an  affair  with  a  lady.  He  dimly  remembered 
that  Ste.  Marie's  name  had,  from  time  to  time,  been  a  good 
deal  involved  in  romantic  histories,  and  he  said  to  himself 
that  his  lie  had  been  very  well  chosen,  indeed,  and  might 
be  expected  to  cause  Richard  Hartley  much  anguish  of 
spirit. 

After  that  he  lighted  a  very  large  cigarette,  half  as  big 
as  a  cigar,  and  he  lay  back  in  his  low,  comfortable  chair 
and  began  to  think  of  the  outcome  of  all  this  plotting  and 
planning.  As  is  very  apt  to  be  the  case  when  a  great  dan 
ger  has  been  escaped,  he  was  in  a  mood  of  extreme  hope 
fulness  and  confidence.  Vaguely  he  felt  as  if  the  recent 
happenings  had  set  him  ahead  a  pace  toward  his  goal, 
though  of  course  they  had  done  nothing  of  the  kind.  The 

210 


JASON 

danger  that  would  exist  so  long  as  Ste.  Marie,  who  knew 
everything,  was  alive,  seemed  in  some  miraculous  fashion 
to  have  dwindled  to  insignificance;  in  this  rebound  from 
fear  and  despair  difficulties  were  swept  away  and  the  path 
was  clear.  The  man's  mind  leaped  to  his  goal,  and  a  little 
shiver  of  prospective  joy  ran  over  him.  Once  that  goal 
gained  he  could  defy  the  world.  Let  eyes  look  askance, 
let  tongues  wag,  he  would  be  safe  then — safe  for  all  the  rest 
of  his  life,  and  rich,  rich,  rich! 

For  he  was  playing  against  a  feeble  old  man's  life.  Day 
by  day  he  watched  the  low  flame  sink  lower  as  the  flame 
of  an  exhausted  lamp  sinks  and  flickers.  It  was  slow,  for 
the  old  man  had  still  a  little  strength  left,  but  the  will  to 
live — which  was  the  oil  in  the  lamp — was  almost  gone,  and 
the  waiting  could  not  be  long  now.  One  day,  quite  sud 
denly,  the  flame  would  sink  down  to  almost  nothing,  as  at 
last  it  does  in  the  spent  lamp.  It  would  flicker  up  and 
down  rapidly  for  a  few  moments,  and  all  at  once  there 
would  be  no  flame  there.  Old  David  would  be  dead,  and 
a  servant  would  be  sent  across  the  river  in  haste  to  the  rue 
du  Faubourg  St.  Honore.  Stewart  lay  back  in  his  chair 
and  tried  to  imagine  that  it  was  true,  that  it  had  already 
happened,  as  happen  it  must  before  long,  and  once  more 
the  little  shiver,  which  was  like  a  shiver  of  voluptuous  de 
light,  ran  up  and  down  his  limbs,  and  his  breath  began  to 
come  fast  and  hard. 

But  Richard  Hartley  drove  at  once  back  to  the  rue 
d'Assas.  He  was  not  very  much  disappointed  in  having 
learned  nothing  from  Stewart,  though  he  was  thoroughly 
angry  at  that  gentleman's  hint  about  Ste.  Marie  and  the 
unknown  lady.  He  had  gone  to  the  rue  du  Faubourg 

2H 


JASON 

because,  as  he  had  said,  he  wished  to  leave  no  stone  un 
turned,  and,  after  all,  he  had  thought  it  quite  possible  that 
Stewart  could  give  him  some  information  which  would  be 
of  value.  Hartley  firmly  believed  the  elder  man  to  be  a 
rascal,  but  of  course  he  knew  nothing  definite  save  the 
two  facts  which  he  had  accidentally  learned  from  Helen 
Benham,  and  it  had  occurred  to  him  that  Captain  Stewart 
might  have  sent  Ste.  Marie  off  upon  another  wild-goose 
chase  such  as  the  expedition  to  Dinard  had  been.  He 
would  have  been  sure  that  the  elder  man  had  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  Ste.  Marie's  disappearance  if  the  latter 
had  not  been  seen  since  Stewart's  party,  but  instead  of  that 
Ste.  Marie  had  come  home,  slept,  gone  out  the  next  morn 
ing,  returned  again,  received  a  visitor,  and  gone  out  to 
lunch.  It  was  all  very  puzzling  and  mysterious. 

His  mind  went  back  to  the  brief  interview  with  Stewart 
and  dwelt  upon  it.  Little  things  which  had  at  the  time 
made  no  impression  upon  him  began  to  recur  and  to  take 
on  significance.  He  remembered  the  elder  man's  odd  and 
strained  manner  at  the  beginning,  his  sudden  and  causeless 
change  to  ease  and  to  something  that  was  almost  like  a 
triumphant  excitement,  and  then  his  absurd  story  about 
Ste.  Marie's  flirtation  with  a  lady.  Hartley  thought  of 
these  things;  he  thought  also  of  the  fact  that  Ste.  Marie  had 
disappeared  immediately  after  hearing  grave  accusations 
against  Stewart.  Could  he  have  lost  his  head,  rushed  across 
the  city  at  once  to  confront  the  middle-aged  villain,  and 
then — disappeared  from  human  ken  ?  It  would  have  been 
very  like  him  to  do  something  rashly  impulsive  upon  read 
ing  that  note. 

Hartley  broke  into  a  sudden  laugh  of  sheer  amusement 
when  he  realized  to  what  a  wild  and  improbable  flight  his 

212 


JASON 

fancy  was  soaring.  He  could  not  quite  rid  himself  of  a 
feeling  that  Stewart  was,  in  some  mysterious  fashion,  re 
sponsible  for  his  friend's  vanishing,  but  he  was  unlike  Ste. 
Marie :  he  did  not  trust  his  feelings,  either  good  or  bad, 
unless  they  were  backed  by  excellent  evidence,  and  he  had 
to  admit  that  there  was  not  a  single  scrap  of  evidence  in 
this  instance  against  Miss  Benham's  uncle. 

The  girl's  name  recalled  him  to  another  duty.  He  must 
tell  her  about  Ste.  Marie.  He  was  by  this  time  half-way 
up  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain,  but  he  gave  a  new  order, 
and  the  fiacre  turned  back  to  the  rue  de  1'Universite.  The 
footman  at  the  door  said  that  Mademoiselle  was  not  in  the 
drawing-room,  as  it  was  only  four  o'clock,  but  that  he 
thought  she  was  in  the  house.  So  Hartley  sent  up  his 
name  and  went  in  to  wait. 

Miss  Benham  came  down  looking  a  little  pale  and  anxious. 

"I've  been  with  grandfather,"  she  explained.  "He  had 
some  sort  of  sinking-spell  last  night  and  we  were  very  much 
frightened.  He's  much  better,  but — well,  he  couldn't  have 
many  such  spells  and  live.  I'm  afraid  he  grows  a  good  deal 
weaker  day  by  day  now.  He  sees  hardly  any  one  outside 
the  family,  except  Baron  de  Vries."  She  sat  down  with  a 
little  sigh  of  fatigue  and  smiled  up  at  her  visitor.  "I'm 
glad  you've  come,"  said  she.  "You'll  cheer  me  up,  and 
I  rather  need  it.  What  are  you  looking  so  solemn  about, 
though  ?  You  won't  cheer  me  up  if  you  look  like  that." 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  Hartley,  "I  came  at  this  impossible 
hour  to  bring  you  some  bad  news.  I'm  sorry.  Perhaps," 
he  modified,  "bad  news  is  putting  it  with  too  much  serious 
ness.  Strange  news  is  better.  To  be  brief,  Ste.  Marie  has 
disappeared — vanished  into  thin  air.  I  thought  you  ought 
to  know." 

213 


JASON 

"Ste.  Marie!"  cried  the  girl.  "How?  What  do  you 
mean — vanished  ?  When  did  he  vanish  ?" 

She  gave  a  sudden  exclamation  of  relief. 

"Oh,  he  has  come  upon  some  clew  or  other  and  has  rushed 
off  to  follow  it.  That's  all.  How  dare  you  frighten  me  so  ?" 

"He  went  without  luggage,"  said  the  man,  shaking  his 
head,  "and  he  left  no  word  of  any  kind  behind  him.  He 
went  out  to  lunch  yesterday  about  noon,  and,  as  I  said, 
simply  vanished,  leaving  no  trace  whatever  behind  him. 
I've  just  been  to  see  your  uncle,  thinking  that  he  might 
know  something,  but  he  doesn't." 

The  girl  looked  up  quickly. 

"My  uncle?"  she  said.     "Why  my  uncle?" 

"Well,"  said  Hartley,  "you  see,  Ste.  Marie  went  to  a  lit 
tle  party  at  your  uncle's  flat  on  the  night  before  he  disap 
peared,  and  I  thought  your  uncle  might  have  heard  him 
say  something  that  would  throw  light  on  his  movements 
the  next  day." 

Hartley  remembered  the  unfortunate  incident  of  the  gal 
loping  pigs,  and  hurried  on: 

"He  went  to  the  party  more  for  the  purpose  of  having  a 
talk  with  your  uncle  than  for  any  other  reason,  I  think.  I 
was  to  have  gone  myself,  but  gave  it  up  at  the  eleventh  hour 
for  the  Cains'  dinner  at  Armenonville.  Well,  the  next 
morning  after  Captain  Stewart's  party  he  went  out  early. 
I  called  at  his  rooms  to  see  him  about  something  important 
that  I  thought  he  ought  to  know.  I  missed  him,  and  so 
left  a  note  for  him  which  he  got  on  his  return  and  read.  I 
found  it  open  on  his  table  later  on.  At  noon  he  went  out 
again,  and  that's  all.  Frankly,  I'm  worried  about  him." 

Miss  Benham  watched  the  man  with  thoughtful  eyes,  and 
when  he  had  finished  she  asked: 

214 


JASON 

"Could  you  tell  me  what  was  in  this  note  that  you  left 
for  Ste.  Marie  ?" 

Hartley  was  by  nature  a  very  open  and  frank  young 
man,  and  in  consequence  an  unusually  bad  liar.  He  hesi 
tated  and  looked  away,  and  he  began  to  turn  red. 

"Well — no,"  he  said,  after  a  moment — "no,  I'm  afraid 
I  can't.  It  was  something  you  wouldn't  understand — 
wouldn't  know  about." 

And  the  girl  said,  "Oh!"  and  remained  for  a  little 
while  silent.  But  at  the  end  she  looked  up  and  met  his 
eyes,  and  the  man  saw  that  she  was  very  grave.  She 
said: 

"Richard,  there  is  something  that  you  and  I  have  been 
avoiding  and  pretending  not  to  see.  It  has  gone  too  far 
now,  and  we've  got  to  face  it  with  perfect  frankness.  I 
know  what  was  in  your  note  to  Ste.  Marie.  It  was  what 
you  found  out  the  other  evening  about — my  uncle — the  mat 
ter  of  the  will  and  the  other  matter.  He  knew  about  the 
will,  but  he  told  you  and  Ste.  Marie  that  he  didn't.  He 
said  to  you,  also,  that  I  had  told  him  about  my  engagement 
and  Ste.  Marie's  determination  to  search  for  Arthur,  and 
that  was — a  lie.  I  didn't  tell  him,  and  grandfather  didn't 
tell  him.  He  listened  in  the  door  yonder  and  heard  it  him 
self.  I  have  a  good  reason  for  knowing  that.  And  then," 
she  said,  "he  tried  very  hard  to  persuade  you  and  Ste. 
Marie  to  take  up  your  search  under  his  direction,  and  he 
partly  succeeded.  He  sent  Ste.  Marie  upon  a  foolish  ex 
pedition  to  Dinard,  and  he  gave  him  and  gave  you  other 
clews  just  as  foolish  as  that  one.  Richard,  do  you  believe 
that  my  uncle  has  hidden  poor  Arthur  away  somewhere  or 
— worse  than  that  ?  Do  you  ?  Tell  me  the  truth!" 

"There  is  not,"  said  Hartley,  "one  particle  of  real  evi- 
15  215 


JASON 

dence  against  him  that  I'm  aware  of.     There's  plenty  of 
motive,  if  you  like,  but  motive  is  not  evidence." 

"I  asked  you  a  question,"  the  girl  said.     "Do  you  be 
lieve  my  uncle  has  been  responsible  for  Arthur's  disap 


pearance 


"Yes,"  said  Richard  Hartley,  "I'm  afraid  I  do." 
"Then,"  she  said,  "he   has   been  responsible  for  Ste. 
Mane's  disappearance  also.     Ste.  Marie  became  dangerous 
to  him,  and  so  vanished.   What  can  we  do,  Richard  ?   What 
can  we  do?" 


XVIII 

A   CONVERSATION   OVERHEARD 

IN  the  upper  chamber  at  La  Lierre  the  days  dragged  very 
slowly  by,  and  the  man  who  lay  in  bed  there  counted  in 
terminable  hours  and  prayed  for  the  coming  of  night  with 
its  merciful  oblivion  of  sleep.  His  inaction  was  made 
bitterer  by  the  fact  that  the  days  were  days  of  green  and 
gold,  of  breeze-stirred  tree-tops  without  his  windows,  of 
vagrant  sweet  airs  that  stole  in  upon  his  solitude,  bringing 
him  all  the  warm  fragrance  of  summer  and  of  green  things 
growing. 

He  suffered  little  pain.  There  was,  for  the  first  three  or 
four  days,  a  dull  and  feverish  ache  in  his  wounded  leg,  but 
presently  even  that  passed,  and  the  leg  hurt  him  only  when 
he  moved  it.  He  thought  sometimes  that  he  would  be 
grateful  for  a  bit  of  physical  anguish  to  make  the  hours  pass 
more  quickly. 

The  other  inmates  of  the  house  held  aloof  from  him. 
Once  a  day  O'Hara  came  in  to  see  to  the  wound,  but  he 
maintained  a  wellnigh  complete  silence  over  his  work,  and 
answered  questions  only  with  a  brief  yes  or  no.  Sometimes 
he  did  not  answer  them  at  all.  The  old  Michel  came  twice 
daily,  but  this  strange  being  had  quite  plainly  been  fright 
ened  into  dumbness,  and  there  was  nothing  to  be  got  out  of 
him.  He  shambled  hastily  about  the  place,  his  one  scared 

217 


JASON 

eye  upon  the  man  in  bed,  and  as  soon  as  possible  fled  away, 
closing  the  door  behind  him.  Sometimes  Michel  brought 
in  the  meals,  sometimes  his  wife,  a  creature  so  like  him  that 
the  two  might  well  have  passed  for  twin  survivors  of  some 
unknown  race;  sometimes — thrice  altogether  in  that  first 
week — Coira  O'Hara  brought  the  tray,  and  she  was  as  silent 
as  the  others. 

So  Ste.  Marie  was  left  alone  to  get  through  the  intermi 
nable  days  as  best  he  might,  and  ever  afterward  the  week 
remained  in  his  memory  as  a  sort  of  nightmare.  Lying 
idle  in  his  bed,  he  evolved  many  surprising  and  fantastic 
schemes  for  escape,  for  getting  word  to  the  outside  world 
of  his  presence  here,  and  one  by  one  he  gave  them  up  in 
disgust  as  their  impossibility  forced  itself  upon  him.  Plans 
and  schemes  were  useless  while  he  lay  bedridden,  unfa 
miliar  even  with  the  house  wherein  he  dwelt,  with  the  gar 
den  and  park  that  surrounded  it. 

As  for  aid  from  any  of  the  inmates  of  the  place,  that  was 
to  be  laughed  at.  They  were  engaged  together  in  a  scheme 
so  desperate  that  failure  must  mean  utter  ruin  to  them  all. 
He  sometimes  wondered  if  the  two  servants  could  be  bribed. 
Avarice  unmistakable  gleamed  from  their  little,  glittering, 
ratlike  eyes,  but  he  was  sure  that  they  would  sell  out  for  no 
small  sum,  and  in  so  far  as  he  could  remember  there  had 
been  in  his  pockets,  when  he  came  here,  not  more  than  five 
or  six  louis.  Doubtless  the  old  Michel  had  managed  to 
abstract  those  in  his  daily  offices  about  the  room,  for  Ste. 
Marie  knew  that  the  clothes  hung  in  a  closet  across  from  his 
bed.  He  had  seen  them  there  once  when  the  closet-door 
was  open. 

Any  help  that  might  come  to  him  must  come  from  out 
side — and  what  help  was  to  be  expected  there  ?  Over  and 

218 


JASON 

over  again  he  reminded  himself  of  how  little  Richard  Hart 
ley  knew.  He  might  suspect  Stewart  of  complicity  in  this 
new  disappearance,  but  how  was  he  to  find  out  anything 
definite  ?  How  was  any  one  to  do  so  ? 

It  was  at  such  times  as  this,  when  brain  and  nerves  were 
strained  and  worn  almost  to  breaking-point,  that  Ste.  Marie 
had  occasion  to  be  grateful  for  the  Southern  blood  that  was 
in  him,  the  strong  tinge  of  fatalism  which  is  common  alike 
to  Latin  and  to  Oriental.  It  rescued  him  more  than  once 
from  something  like  nervous  breakdown,  calmed  him  sud 
denly,  lifted  his  burdens  from  outwearied  shoulders,  and 
left  him  in  peace  to  wait  until  some  action  should  be  possible. 
Then,  in  such  hours,  he  would  fall  to  thinking  of  the  girl 
for  whose  sake,  in  whose  cause,  he  lay  bedridden,  beset 
with  dangers.  As  long  before,  she  came  to  him  in  a  sort 
of  waking  vision — a  being  but  half  earthly,  enthroned  high 
above  him,  calm-browed,  very  pure,  with  passionless  eyes 
that  gazed  into  far  distance  and  were  unaware  of  the  base 
things  below.  What  would  she  think  of  him,  who  had 
sworn  to  be  true  knight  to  her,  if  she  could  know  how  he  had 
bungled  and  failed  ?  He  was  glad  that  she  did  not  know, 
that  if  he  had  blundered  into  peril  the  knowledge  of  it  could 
not  reach  her  to  hurt  her  pride. 

And  sometimes,  also,  with  a  great  sadness  and  pity,  he 
thought  of  poor  Coira  O'Hara  and  of  the  pathetic  wreck 
her  life  had  fallen  into.  The  girl  was  so  patently  fit  for 
better  things!  Her  splendid  beauty  was  not  a  cheap  beau 
ty.  She  was  no  coarse-blown,  gorgeous  flower,  imperfect  at 
telltale  points.  It  was  good  blood  that  had  modelled  her 
dark  perfection,  good  blood  that  had  shaped  her  long  and 
slim  and  tapering  hands. 

"A  queen  among  goddesses!"  The  words  remained  with 

219 


JASON 

him,  and  he  knew  that  they  were  true.  She  might  have 
held  up  her  head  among  the  greatest,  this  adventurer's  girl; 
but  what  chance  had  she  had  ?  What  merest  ghost  of  a 
chance  ? 

He  watched  her  on  the  rare  occasions  when  she  came 
into  the  room.  He  watched  the  poise  of  her  head,  her  walk, 
the  movements  she  made,  and  he  said  to  himself  that  there 
was  no  woman  of  his  acquaintance  whose  grace  was  more 
perfect — certainly  none  whose  grace  was  so  native. 

Once  he  complained  to  her  of  the  desperate  idleness  of 
his  days,  and  asked  her  to  lend  him  a  book  of  some  kind,  a 
review,  even  a  daily  newspaper,  though  it  be  a  week  old. 

"I  should  read  the  very  advertisements  with  joy,"  he 
said. 

She  went  out  of  the  room  and  returned  presently  with 
an  armful  of  books,  which  she  laid  upon  the  bed  without 
comment. 

"In  my  prayers,  Mademoiselle,"  cried  Ste.  Marie,  "you 
shall  be  foremost  forever!"  He  glanced  at  the  row  of  titles 
and  looked  up  in  sheer  astonishment.  "May  I  ask  whose 
books  these  are  ?"  he  said. 

"They  are  mine,"  said  the  girl.  "I  caught  up  the  ones 
that  lay  first  at  hand.  If  you  don't  care  for  any  of  them, 
I  will  choose  others." 

The  books  were:  Diana  of  the  Crossways,  Richard 
Feverel,  Henri  Lavedan's  Le  Duel,  Maeterlinck's  Pelleas  et 
Melisande,  Don  Quixote  tie  la  Mancha,  in  Spanish,  a  volume 
of  Virgil's  Eclogues,  and  the  Life  of  the  Chevalier  Bayard, 
by  the  Loyal  Servitor.  Ste.  Marie  stared  at  her. 

"Do  you  read  Spanish,"  he  demanded,  "and  Latin,  as 
well  as  French  and  English  ?" 

"My  mother  was  Spanish,"  said  she.     "And  as  for  Latin, 

220 


JASON 

I  began  to  read  it  with  my  father  when  I  was  a  child.  Shall 
I  leave  the  books  here  ?" 

Ste.  Marie  took  up  the  Bayard  and  held  it  between  his 
hands. 

"It  is  worn  from  much  reading,  Mademoiselle,"  he  said. 

"It  is  the  best  of  all,"  said  she.  "The  very  best  of  all. 
I  didn't  know  I  had  brought  you  that." 

She  made  a  step  toward  him  as  if  she  would  take  the 
book  away,  and  over  it  their  eyes  met  and  were  held.  In 
that  moment  it  may  have  come  to  them  both  who  she 
was,  who  so  loved  the  knight  without  fear  and  without  re 
proach — the  daughter  of  an  Irish  adventurer  of  ill  repute — 
for  their  faces  began  suddenly  to  flush  with  red,  and  after 
an  instant  the  girl  turned  away. 

"It  is  of  no  consequence,"  said  she.  "You  may  keep 
the  book  if  you  care  to." 

And  Ste.  Marie  said,  very  gently:  "Thank  you,  Made 
moiselle.  I  will  keep  it  for  a  little  while." 

So  she  went  out  of  the  room  and  left  him  alone. 

This  was  at  noon  on  the  sixth  day,  and,  after  he  had 
swallowed  hastily  the  lunch  which  had  been  set  before 
him,  Ste.  Marie  fell  upon  the  books  like  a  child  upon  a  new 
box  of  sweets.  Like  the  child  again,  it  was  difficult  for  him 
to  choose  among  them.  He  opened  one  and  then  another, 
gloating  over  them  all,  but  in  the  end  he  chose  the  Bayard, 
and  for  hours  lost  himself  among  the  high  deeds  of  the 
Preux  Chevalier  and  his  faithful  friends — among  whom, 
by  the  way,  there  was  a  Ste.  Marie  who  died  nobly  for 
France.  It  was  late  afternoon  when  at  last  he  laid  the 
book  down  with  a  sigh  and  settled  himself  more  comfort 
ably  among  the  pillows. 

The  sun  was  not  in  the  room  at  that  hour,  but  from  where 

221 


JASON 

he  lay  he  could  see  it  on  the  tree-tops,  gold  upon  green. 
Outside  his  south  window  the  leaves  of  a  chestnut  which 
stood  there  quivered  and  rustled  gently  under  a  soft  breeze. 
Delectable  odors  floated  in  to  Ste.  Marie's  nostrils,  and  he 
thought  how  very  pleasant  it  would  be  if  he  were  lying  on 
the  turf  under  the  trees  instead  of  bedridden  in  this  upper 
chamber,  which  he  had  come  to  hate  with  a  bitter  hatred. 

He  began  to  wonder  if  it  would  be  possible  to  drag  him 
self  across  the  floor  to  that  south  window,  and  so  to  lie 
down  for  a  while  with  his  head  in  the  tiny  balcony  beyond, 
his  eyes  turned  to  the  blue  sky.  Astir  with  the  new  thought, 
he  sat  up  in  bed  and  carefully  swung  his  feet  out  till  they 
hung  to  the  floor.  The  wound  in  the  left  leg  smarted  and 
burned,  but  not  too  severely,  and  with  slow  pains  Ste.  Marie 
stood  up.  He  almost  cried  out  when  he  discovered  that  it 
could  be  done  quite  easily.  He  essayed  to  walk,  and  he 
was  a  little  weak,  but  by  no  means  helpless.  He  found  that 
it  gave  him  pain  to  raise  his  left  leg  in  the  ordinary  action 
of  walking  or  to  bend  that  knee,  but  he  could  get  about 
well  enough  by  dragging  the  injured  member  beside  him, 
for  when  it  was  straight  it  supported  him  without  protest. 

He  took  his  pillows  across  to  the  window  and  disposed 
them  there,  for  it  was  a  French  window  opening  to  the 
floor,  and  the  level  of  the  little  balcony  outside  was  but  a 
few  inches  above  the  level  of  the  room.  Then  the  desire 
seized  him  to  make  a  tour  of  his  prison  walls.  He  went 
first  to  the  closet  where  he  had  seen  his  clothes  hanging, 
and  they  were  still  there.  He  felt  in  the  pockets  and  with 
drew  his  little  English  pigskin  sovereign  -  purse.  It  had 
not  been  tampered  with,  and  he  gave  an  exclamation  of 
relief  over  that,  for  he  might  later  on  have  use  for  money. 
There  were  eight  louis  in  it,  each  in  its  little  separate  com- 

222 


JASON 

partment,  and  in  another  pocket  he  found  a  fifty-franc  note 
and  some  silver.  He  went  to  the  two  east  windows  and 
looked  out.  The  trees  stood  thick  together  on  that  side 
of  the  house,  but  between  two  of  them  he  could  see  the 
park  wall  fifty  yards  away.  He  glanced  down,  and  the 
side  of  the  house  was  covered  thick  with  the  ivy  which  had 
given  the  place  its  name,  but  there  was  no  water-pipe  near, 
nor  any  other  thing  which  seemed  to  offer  foot  or  hand 
hold,  unless,  perhaps,  the  ivy  might  prove  strong  enough 
to  bear  a  man's  weight.  Ste.  Marie  made  a  mental  note 
to  look  into  that  when  he  was  a  little  stronger,  and  turned 
back  to  the  south  window  where  he  had  disposed  his  pil 
lows. 

The  unaccustomed  activity  was  making  his  wound  smart 
and  prickle,  and  he  lay  down  at  once  with  head  and  shoul 
ders  in  the  open  air,  and  out  of  the  warm  and  golden  sun 
shine  and  the  emerald  shade  the  breath  of  summer  came 
to  him  and  wrapped  him  round  with  sweetness  and  pil 
lowed  him  upon  its  fragrant  breast. 

He  became  aware  after  a  long  time  of  voices  below,  and 
turned  upon  his  elbows  to  look.  The  ivy  had  clambered 
upon  and  partly  covered  the  iron  grille  of  the  little  balcony, 
and  he  could  observe  without  being  seen.  Young  Arthur 
Benham  and  Coira  O'Hara  had  come  out  of  the  door  of 
the  house,  and  they  stood  upon  the  raised  and  paved  terrace 
which  ran  the  width  of  the  facade,  and  seemed  to  hesitate 
as  to  the  direction  they  should  take.  Ste.  Marie  heard  the 
girl  say: 

"  It's  cooler  here  in  the  shade  of  the  house,"  and  after 
a  moment  the  two  came  along  the  shady  terrace  whose 
outer  margin  was  set  at  intervals  with  stained  and  dis 
colored  marble  nymphs  upon  pedestals,  and  between  the 

223 


JASON 

nymphs  with  moss-grown  stone  benches.  They  halted 
before  a  bench  upon  which,  earlier  in  the  day,  a  rug  had 
been  spread  out  to  dry  in  the  sun  and  had  been  forgotten, 
and  after  a  moment's  further  hesitation  they*  sat  down 
upon  it.  Their  faces  were  turned  toward  the  house,  and 
every  word  that  they  spoke  mounted  in  that  still  air  clear 
and  distinct  to  the  ears  of  the  man  above. 

Ste.  Marie  wriggled  back  into  the  room  and  sat  up  to 
consider.  The  thought  of  deliberately  listening  to  a  con 
versation  not  meant  for  him  sent  a  hot  flush  to  his  cheeks. 
He  told  himself  that  it  could  not  be  done,  and  that  there  was 
an  end  to  the  matter.  Whatever  might  hang  upon  it,  it 
could  not  be  asked  of  him  that  he  should  stoop  to  dishonor. 
But  at  that  the  heavy  and  grave  responsibility,  which  really 
did  hang  upon  him  and  upon  his  actions,  came  before  his 
mind's  eye  and  loomed  there  mountainous.  The  fate  of 
this  foolish  boy  who  was  set  round  with  thieves  and  ad 
venturers — even  though  his  eyes  were  open  and  he  knew 
where  he  stood — that  came  to  Ste.  Marie  and  confronted 
him;  and  the  picture  of  a  bitter  old  man  who  was  dying  of 
grief  came  to  him;  and  a  mother's  face;  and  hers.  There 
could  be  no  dishonor  in  the  face  of  all  this,  only  a  duty  very 
clear  and  plain.  He  crept  back  to  his  place,  his  arms  fold 
ed  beneath  him  as  he  lay,  his  eyes  at  the  thin  screen  of  ivy 
which  cloaked  the  balcony  grille. 

Young  Arthur  Benham  appeared  to  be  giving  tongue  to 
a  rather  sharp  attack  of  homesickness.  It  may  be  that  long 
confinement  within  the  walls  of  La  Lierre  was  beginning  to 
try  him  somewhat. 

"Mind  you,"  he  declared,  as  Ste.  Marie's  ears  came  once 
more  within  range — "mind  you,  I'm  not  saying  that  Paris 
hasn't  got  its  points.  It  has.  Oh  yes!  And  so  has  Lon- 

224 


JASON 

don,  and  so  has  Ostend,  and  so  has  Monte  Carlo.  Verree 
much  so!  I  like  Paris.  I  like  the  theatres  and  the  vaude 
ville  shows  in  the  Champs-Elysees,  and  I  like  Longchamps. 
I  like  the  boys  who  hang  around  Henry's  Bar.  They're 
good  sports  all  right,  all  right!  But,  by  golly,  I  want  to  go 
home!  Put  me  off  at  the  corner  of  Forty-second  Street  and 
Broadway,  and  I'll  ask  no  more.  Set  me  down  at  7  P.M., 
right  there  on  the  corner  outside  the  Knickerbocker,  for 
that's  where  I  would  live  and  die."  There  came  into  the 
lad's  somewhat  strident  voice  a  softness  that  was  almost 
pathetic.  "You  don't  know  Broadway,  Coira,  do  you? 
Nix!  of  course  not.  Little  girl,  it's  the  one  street  of  all  this 
large  world.  It's  the  equator  that  runs  north  and  south  in 
stead  of  east  and  west.  It's  a  long,  bright,  gay,  live  wire! — 
that's  what  Broadway  is.  And  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor, 
like  a  little  man,  that  it — is — not — slow.  No-o,  indeed! 
When  I  was  there  last  it  was  being  called  the  'Gay  White 
Way.'  It  is  not  called  the  'Gay  White  Way'  now.  It  has 
had  forty  other  new,  good  names  since  then,  and  I  don't  know 
what  they  are,  but  I  do  know  that  it  is  forever  gay,  and  that 
the  electric  signs  are  still  blazing  all  along  the  street,  and  the 
street-cars  are  still  killing  people  in  the  good  old  fashion,  and 
the  news-boys  are  still  dodging  under  the  automobiles  to  sell 
you  a  Woild  or  a  Cholnal  or,  if  it's  after  twelve  at  night, 
a  Morning  Telegraph.  Coira,  my  girl,  standing  on  that 
corner  after  dark  you  can  see  the  electric  signs  of  fifteen 
theatres,  not  one  of  them  more  than  five  minutes'  walk 
away;  and  just  round  the  corner  there  are  more.  I  want  to 
go  home!  I  want  to  take  one  large,  unparalleled  leap  from 
here  and  come  down  at  the  corner  I  told  you  about.  D'you 
know  what  I'd  do  ?  We'll  say  it's  7  P.M.  and  beginning  to 
get  dark.  I'd  dive  into  the  Knickerbocker — that's  the  hotel 

225 


JASON 

that  the  bright  and  happy  people  go  to  for  dinner  or  supper — 
and  I'd  engage  a  table  up  on  the  terrace.  Then  I'd  tele 
phone  to  a  little  friend  of  mine  whose  name  is  Doe — John 
Doe — and  in  about  ten  minutes  he'd  have  left  the  crowd  he 
was  standing  in  line  with  and  he'd  come  galloping  up,  that 
glad  to  see  me  you'd  cry  to  watch  him.  We'd  go  up  on  the 
terrace,  where  the  potted  palms  grow,  for  our  dinner,  and 
the  tables  all  around  us  would  be  full  of  people  that  would 
know  Johnnie  Doe  and  me,  and  they'd  all  make  us  drink 
drinks  and  tell  us  how  glad  they  were  to  see  us  aboard 
again.  And  after  dinner,"  said  young  Arthur  Benham, 
with  wide  and  smiling  eyes — "  after  dinner  we'd  go  to  see  one 
of  the  roof-garden  shows.  Let  me  tell  you  they've  got  the 
Marigny  or  the  Ambassadeurs  or  the  Jardin  de  Paris  beaten 
to  a  pulp — to — a — pulp!  And  after  the  show  we'd  slip 
round  to  the  stage-door — you  bet  we  would! — and  capture 
the  two  most  beautiful  ladies  in  the  world  and  take  'em 
off  to  supper." 

He  wrinkled  his  young  brow  in  great  perplexity.  "Now 
I  wonder,"  said  he,  anxiously — "I  wonder  where  we'd  go 
for  supper.  You  see,"  he  apologized,  "it's  two  years 
since  I  left  the  Real  Street,  and,  gee!  what  a  lot  can  hap 
pen  on  Broadway  in  two  years!  There's  probably  half 
a  dozen  new  supper-places  that  I  don't  know  anything 
about,  and  one  of  them's  the  place  where  the  crowd  goes. 
Well,  anyhow,  we'd  go  to  that  place,  and  there'd  be  a  band 
playing,  and  the  electric  fans  would  go  round  and  round, 
and  Johnnie  Doe  and  I  and  the  two  most  beautiful  ladies 
would  put  it  all  over  the  other  pikers  there." 

Young  Benham  gave  a  little  sigh  of  pleasure  and  ex 
citement.  "That's  what  I'd  like  to  do  to-night,"  said  he, 
"and  that's  what  I'll  do,  you  can  bet  your  sh — boots,  when 

226 


JASON 

all  this  silly  mess  is  over  and  I'm  a  free  man.  I'll  hike  back 
to  good  old  Broadway,  and  if  ever  you  see  any  one  trying  to 
pry  me  loose  from  it  again  you  can  laugh  yourself  to  death, 
because  he'll  never,  never  succeed. 

"  That's  where  I'll  go,"  he  said,  nodding,  "when  this 
waiting  is  over — straight  back  to  Liberty  Land  and  the 
bright  lights.  The  rest  of  the  family  can  stay  here  till  they 
die,  if  they  want  to — and  I  suppose  they  do — I'm  going 
home  as  soon  as  I've  got  my  money.  Old  Charlie  '11 
manage  all  that  for  me.  He'll  get  a  lawyer  to  look 
after  it,  and  I  won't  have  to  see  anybody  in  the  family 
at  all. 

"Nine  more  weeks  shut  in  by  stone  walls!"  said  the 
boy,  staring  about  him  with  a  sort  of  bitterness.  "Nine 
weeks  more!" 

"Is  it  so  hard  as  that  ?"  asked  the  girl. 

There  was  no  foolish  coquetry  in  her  tone.  She  spoke 
as  if  the  words  involved  no  personal  question  at  all,  but 
there  was  a  little  smile  at  her  lips,  and  Arthur  Benham 
turned  toward  her  quickly  and  caught  at  her  hands. 

"No,  no!"  he  cried.  "I  didn't  mean  that.  You  know 
I  didn't  mean  that.  You're  worth  nine  years'  waiting. 
You're  the  best — d'you  hear  ? — the  best  there  is.  There's 
nobody  anywhere  that  can  touch  you.  Only — well,  this 
place  is  getting  on  my  nerves.  It's  got  me  worn  to  a 
frazzle.  I  feel  like  a  criminal  doing  time." 

"You  came  very  near  having  to  do  time  somewhere  else," 
said  the  girl.  "If  this  M.  Ste.  Marie  hadn't  blundered 
we  should  have  had  them  all  round  our  ears,  and  you'd 
have  had  to  run  for  it." 

"Yes,"  the  boy  said,  nodding  gravely.  "Yes,  that  was 
great  luck." 

227 


JASON 

He  raised  his  head  and  looked  up  along  the  windows 
above  him. 

"Which  is  his  room?"  he  asked,  and  Mile.  O'Hara  said: 

"The  one  just  overhead,  but  he's  in  bed  far  back  from 
the  window.  He  couldn't  possibly  hear  us  talking." 

She  paused  for  a  moment  in  frowning  hesitation,  and  in 
the  end  said: 

"Tell  me  about  him,  this  Ste.  Marie!  Do  you  know 
anything  about  him  ?" 

"No,"  said  Arthur  Benham,  "I  don't — not  personally, 
that  is.  Of  course  I've  heard  of  him.  Lots  of  people  have 
spoken  of  him  to  me.  And  the  odd  part  of  it  is  that  they 
all  had  a  good  word  to  say.  Everybody  seemed  to  like  him. 
I  got  the  idea  that  he  was  the  best  ever.  I  wanted  to  know 
him.  I  never  thought  he'd  take  on  a  piece  of  dirty  work 
like  this." 

"Nor  I,"  said  the  girl,  in  a  low  voice.     "Nor  I." 

The  boy  looked  up. 

"Oh,  you've  heard  of  him,  too,  then  ?"  said  he. 

And  she  said,  still  in  her  low  voice,  "I — saw  him  once." 

"Well,"  declared  young  Benham,  "it's  beyond  me.  I 
give  it  up.  You  never  can  tell  about  people,  can  you  ?  I 
guess  they'll  all  go  wrong  when  there's  enough  in  it  to  make 
it  worth  while.  That's  what  old  Charlie  always  says.  He 
says  most  people  are  straight  enough  when  there's  nothing 
in  it,  but  make  the  pot  big  enough  and  they'll  all  go  crooked." 

The  young  man's  face  turned  suddenly  hard  and  old  and 
bitter. 

"Gee!  I  ought  to  know  that  well  enough,  oughtn't  I  ?" 
he  said.  "I  guess  nobody  knows  that  better  than  I  do 
after  what  happened  to  me.  .  .  .  Come  along  and  take  a 
walk  in  the  garden,  Maud!  I'm  sick  of  sitting  still." 

228 


'TELL  ME  ABOUT  HIM,  THIS  STE.  MARIE!     DO  YOU  KNOW 
ANYTHING  ABOUT  HIM  ?" 


JASON 

Mile.  Coira  O'Hara  looked  up  with  a  start,  as  if  she  had 
not  been  listening,  but  she  rose  when  the  boy  held  out  his 
hand  to  her,  and  the  two  went  down  from  the  terrace  and 
moved  off  toward  the  west. 

Ste.  Marie  watched  them  until  they  had  disappeared 
among  the  trees,  and  then  turned  on  his  back,  staring- up 
into  the  softly  stirring  canopy  of  green  above  him  and  the 
little  rifts  of  bright  blue  sky.  He  did  not  understand  at  all. 
Something  mysterious  had  crept  in  where  all  had  seemed 
so  plain  to  the  eye.  Certain  words  that  young  Arthur  Ben- 
ham  had  spoken  repeated  themselves  in  his  mind,  and  he 
could  not  at  once  make  them  out.  Assuredly  there  was 
something  mysterious  here. 

In  the  first  place,  what  did  the  boy  mean  by  "dirty 
work  "  ?  To  be  sure,  spying,  in  its  usual  sense,  is  not  held  to 
be  one  of  the  noblest  of  occupations,  but — in  such  a  cause 
as  this!  It  was  absurd,  ridiculous,  to  call  it  "dirty  work." 
And  what  did  he  mean  by  the  words  which  he  had  used 
afterward  ?  Ste.  Marie  did  not  quite  follow  the  idiom 
about  the  "big  enough  pot,"  but  he  assumed  that  it  re 
ferred  to  money.  Did  the  young  fool  think  he  was  being 
paid  for  nis  efforts  ?  That  was  ridiculous,  too. 

The  boy's  face  came  before  him  as  it  had  looked  with 
that  sudden  hard  and  bitter  expression.  What  did  he 
mean  by  saying  that  no  one  knew  the  crookedness  of  hu 
manity  under  money  temptation  better  than  he  knew  it 
after  something  that  had  happened  to  him  ?  In  a  sense  his 
words  were  doubtless  very  true.  Captain  Stewart — and  he 
must  have  been  "old  Charlie";  Ste.  Marie  remembered  that 
the  name  was  Charles — O'Hara,  and  O'Hara 's  daughter 
stood  excellent  examples  of  that  bit  of  cynicism,  but  ob 
viously  the  boy  had  not  spoken  in  that  sense — certainly 

229 


JASON 

not  before  Mile.  O'Hara!  He  meant  something  else,  then. 
But  what — what  ? 

Ste.  Marie  rose  with  some  difficulty  to  his  feet  and  car 
ried  the  pillows  back  to  the  bed  whence  he  had  taken  them. 
He  sat  down  upon  the  edge  of  the  bed,  staring  in  great 
perplexity  across  the  room  at  the  open  window,  but  all  at 
once  he  uttered  an  exclamation  and  smote  his  hands  to 
gether. 

"That  boy  doesn't  know!"  he  cried.  "They're  tricking 
him,  these  others!" 

The  lad's  face  came  once  more  before  him,  and  it  was 
a  foolish  and  stubborn  face,  perhaps,  but  it  was  neither 
vicious  nor  mean.  It  was  the  face  of  an  honest,  head 
strong  boy  who  would  be  incapable  of  the  cold  cruelty  to 
which  all  circumstances  seemed  to  point. 

"They're  tricking  him  somehow!"  cried  Ste.  Marie  again. 
"They're  lying  to  him  and  making  him  think — " 

What  was  it  they  were  making  him  think,  these  three 
conspirators  ?  What  possible  thing  could  they  make  him 
think  other  than  the  plain  truth  ?  Ste.  Marie  shook  a  weary 
head  and  lay  down  among  his  pillows.  He  wished  that  he 
had  "old  Charlie"  in  a  corner  of  that  room  with  his  fingers 
round  "old  Charlie's"  wicked  throat.  He  would  soon  get 
at  the  truth  then;  or  O'Hara,  either,  that  grim  and  saturnine 
chevalier  d'industrie,  though  O'Hara  would  be  a  bad  hand 
ful  to  manage;  or — Ste.  Marie's  head  dropped  back  with 
a  little  groan  when  the  face  of  young  Arthur's  enchantress 
came  between  him  and  the  opposite  wall  of  the  room  and 
her  great  and  tragic  eyes  looked  into  his. 

It  seemed  incredible  that  that  queen  among  goddesses 
should  be  what  she  was! 


XIX 

THE    INVALID   TAKES   THE   AIR 

WHEN  O'Hara,  the  next  morning,  went  through  the 
formality  of  looking  in  upon  his  patient,  and  after  a 
taciturn  nod  was  about  to  go  away  again,  Ste.  Marie  called 
him  back.  Me  said,  "Would  you  mind  waiting  a  mo 
ment  ?"  and  the  Irishman  halted  inside  the  door.  "I  made 
an  experiment  yesterday,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  "and  I  find  that, 
after  a  poor  fashion,  I  can  walk — that  is  to  say,  I  can  drag 
myself  about  a  little  without  any  great  pain  if  I  don't  bend 
the  left  leg." 

O'Hara  returned  to  the  bed  and  made  a  silent  examina 
tion  of  the  bullet  wound,  which,  it  was  plain  to  see,  was 
doing  very  well  indeed.  "You'll  be  all  right  in  a  few  days," 
said  he,  "but  you'll  be  lame  for  a  week  yet — maybe  two. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  I've  known  men  to  march  half  a  day 
with  a  hole  in  the  leg  worse  than  yours,  though  it  probably 
was  not  quite  pleasant." 

"I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  march  very  far,"  said  Ste.  Marie, 
"but  I  can  hobble  a  bit.  The  point  is,  I'm  going  mad  from 
confinement  in  this  room.  Do  you  think  I  might  be  al 
lowed  to  stagger  about  the  garden  for  an  hour,  or  sit  there 
under  one  of  the  trees  ?  I  don't  like  to  ask  favors,  but,  so 
far  as  I  can  see,  it  could  do  no  harm.  I  couldn't  possibly 
escape,  you  see.  I  couldn't  climb  a  fifteen-foot  wall  even 
16  231 


JASON 

if  I  had  two  good  legs;  as  it  is,  with  a  leg  and  a  half,  I 
couldn't  climb  anything." 

The  Irishman  looked  at  him  sharply,  and  was  silent  for 
a  time, as  if  considering.  But  at  last  he  said:  "Of  course 
there  is  no  reason  whatever  for  granting  you  any  favors  here. 
You're  on  the  footing  of  a  spy — a  captured  spy — and  you're 
very  lucky  not  to  have  got  what  you  deserved  instead  of  a 
trumpery  flesh  wound."  The  man's  face  twisted  into  a 
heavy  scowl.  "Unfortunately,"  said  he,  "an  accident  has 
put  me — put  us  in  as  unpleasant  a  position  toward  you  as 
you  had  put  yourself  toward  us.  We  seem  to  stand  in  the 
position  of  having  tried  to  poison  you,  and — well,  we  owe 
you  something  for  that.  Still,  I'd  meant  to  keep  you  locked 
up  in  this  room  so  long  as  it  was  necessary  to  have  you  at 
La  Lierre."  He  scowled  once  more  in  an  intimidating 
fashion  at  Ste.  Marie,  and  it  was  evident  that  he  found  him 
self  embarrassed.  "And,"  he  said,  awkwardly,  "I  suppose 
I  owe  something  to  your  father's  son.  .  .  .  Look  here!  If 
you're  to  be  allowed  in  the  garden,  you  must  understand 
that  it's  at  fixed  hours  and  not  alone.  Somebody  will  al 
ways  be  with  you,  and  old  Michel  will  be  on  hand  to  shoot 
you  down  if  you  try  to  run  for  it  or  if  you  try  to  communicate 
with  Arthur  Benham.  Is  that  understood  ?" 

"Quite,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  gayly.  "Quite  understood 
and  agreed  to.  And  many  thanks  for  your  courtesy.  I 
sha'n't  forget  it.  We  differ  rather  widely  on  some  rather 
important  subjects,  you  and  I,  but  I  must  confess  that 
you're  very  generous,  and  I  thank  you.  The  old  Michel 
has  my  full  permission  to  shoot  at  me  if  he  sees  me  trying 
to  fly  over  a  fifteen-foot  wall." 

"He'll  shoot  without  asking  your  permission,"  said  the 
Irishman,  grimly,  "if  you  try  that  on,  but  I  don't  think 

232 


JASON 

you'll  be  apt  to  try  it  for  the  present — not  with  a  crippled 
leg."  He  pulled  out  his  watch  and  looked  at  it.  "Nine 
o'clock,"  said  he.  "If  you  care  to  begin  to-day  you  can 
go  out  at  eleven  for  an  hour.  I'll  see  that  old  Michel  is 
ready  at  that  time." 

"  Eleven  will  suit  me  perfectly,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "You're 
very  good.  Thanks  once  more!"  The  Irishman  did  not 
seem  to  hear.  He  replaced  the  watch  in  his  pocket  and  turn 
ed  away  in  silence.  But  before  he  left  the  room  he  stood  a 
moment  beside  one  of  the  windows,  staring  out  into  the 
morning  sunshine,  and  the  other  man  could  see  that  his 
face  had  once  more  settled  into  the  still  and  melancholic 
gloom  which  was  characteristic  of  it.  Ste.  Marie  watched, 
and  for  the  first  time  the  man  began  to  interest  him  as  a 
human  being.  He  had  thought  of  O'Hara  before  merely 
as  a  rather  shady  adventurer  of  a  not  very  rare  type,  but  he 
looked  at  the  adventurer's  face  now  and  he  saw  that  it  was 
the  face  of  a  man  of  unspeakable  sorrows.  When  O'Hara 
looked  at  one,  one  saw  only  a  pair  of  singularly  keen  and 
hard  blue  eyes  set  under  a  bony  brow.  When  those  eyes 
were  turned  away,  the  man's  attention  relaxed,  the  face  be 
came  a  battle-ground  furrowed  and  scarred  with  wrecked 
pride  and  with  bitterness  and  with  shame  and  with  agony. 
Most  soldiers  of  fortune  have  faces  like  that,  for  the  world 
has  used  them  very  ill,  and  they  have  lost  one  precious 
thing  after  another  until  all  are  gone,  and  they  have  tasted 
everything  that  there  is  in  life,  and  the  flavor  which  re 
mains  is  a  very  bitter  flavor — dry,  like  ashes. 

It  came  to  Ste.  Marie,  as  he  lay  watching  this  man,  that 
the  story  of  the  man's  life,  if  he  could  be  made  to  tell  it, 
would  doubtless  be  one  of  the  most  interesting  stories  in  the 
world,  as  must  be  the  tale  of  the  adventurous  career  of  any 

233 


JASON 

one  who  has  slipped  down  the  ladder  of  respectability,  rung 
by  rung,  into  that  shadowy  no-man's-land  where  the  furtive 
birds  of  prey  foregather  and  hatch  their  plots.  It  was 
plain  enough  that  O'Hara  had,  as  the  phrase  goes,  seen 
better  days.  Without  question  he  was  a  villain,  but,  after 
all,  a  generous  villain.  He  had  been  very  decent  about 
making  amends  for  that  poisoning  affair.  A  cheaper  rascal 
would  have  behaved  otherwise.  Ste.  Marie  suddenly  re 
membered  what  a  friend  of  his  had  once  said  of  this  mys 
terious  Irishman.  The  two  had  been  sitting  on  the  terrace 
of  a  cafe,  and  as  O'Hara  passed  by  Ste.  Marie's  friend  point 
ed  after  him  and  said -."There  goes  some  of  the  best  blood 
that  ever  came  out  of  Ireland.  See  what  it  has  fallen  to!" 

Seemingly  it  had  fallen  pretty  low.  He  would  have 
liked  very  much  to  know  about  the  downward  stages,  but 
he  knew  that  he  would  never  hear  anything  of  them  from 
the  man  himself,  for  O'Hara  was  clad,  as  it  were,  in  an 
armor  of  taciturnity.  He  was  incredibly  silent.  He  wore 
mail  that  nothing  could  pierce. 

The  Irishman  turned  abruptly  away  and  left  the  room, 
and  Ste.  Marie,  with  all  the  gay  excitement  of  a  little  girl 
preparing  for  her  first  nursery  party,  began  to  get  himself 
ready  to  go  out.  The  old  Michel  had  already  been  there 
to  help  him  bathe  and  shave,  so  that  he  had  only  to  dress 
himself  and  attend  to  his  one  conspicuous  vanity — the 
painstaking  arrangement  of  his  hair,  which  he  wore,  ac 
cording  to  the  fashion  of  the  day,  parted  a  little  at  one  side 
and  brushed  almost  straight  back,  so  that  it  looked  rather 
like  a  close-fitting  and  incredibly  glossy  skullcap.  Richard 
Hartley,  who  was  inclined  to  joke  at  his  friend's  grave  interest 
in  the  matter,  said  that  it  reminded  him  of  patent-leather. 

When  he  was  dressed — and  he  found  that  putting  on 

234 


JASON 

his  left  boot  was  no  mean  feat — Ste.  Marie  -sat  down  in  a 
chair  by  the  window  and  lighted  a  cigarette.  He  had  half 
an  hour  to  wait,  and  so  he  picked  up  the  volume  of  Bayard, 
which  Coira  O'Hara  had  not  yet  taken  away  from  him,  and 
began  to  read  in  it  at  random.  He  became  so  absorbed 
that  the  old  Michel,  come  to  summon  him,  took  him  by 
surprise.  But  it  was  a  pleasant  surprise  and  very  welcome. 
He  followed  the  old  man  out  of  the  room  with  a  heart  that 
beat  fast  with  eagerness. 

The  descent  of  the  stairs  offered  difficulties,  for  the 
wounded  leg  protested  sharply  against  being  bent  more 
than  a  very  little  at  the  knee.  But  by  the  aid  of  Michel's 
shoulder  he  made  the  passage  in  safety  and  so  came  to  the 
lower  story.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  some  one  opened  a 
door  almost  in  their  faces,  but  closed  it  again  with  great 
haste,  and  Ste.  Marie  gave  a  chuckle  of  laughter,  for, 
though  it  was  almost  dark  there,  he  thought  he  had  rec 
ognized  Captain  Stewart. 

"So  old  Charlie's  with  us  to-day,  is  he  ?"  he  said,  aloud, 
and  Michel  queried: 

"Comment,  Monsieur?"  because  Ste.  Marie  had  spoken 
in  English. 

They  came  out  upon  the  terrace  before  the  house,  and 
the  fresh,  sweet  air  bore  against  their  faces,  and  little 
flecks  of  live  gold  danced  and  shivered  about  their  feet 
upon  the  moss-stained  tiles.  The  gardener  stepped  back 
for  an  instant  into  the  doorway,  and  reappeared  bearing 
across  his  arms  the  short  carbine  with  which  Ste.  Marie 
had  already  made  acquaintance.  The  victim  looked  at 
this  weapon  with  a  laugh,  and  the  old  Michel's  gnomelike 
countenance  distorted  itself  suddenly  and  a  weird  cackle 
came  from  it. 

235 


JASON 

"It  is  my  old  friend?"  demanded  Ste.  Marie,  and  the 
gardener  cackled  once  more,  stroking  the  barrel  of  the 
weapon  as  if  it  were  a  faithful  dog. 

"The  same,  Monsieur,"  said  he.  "But  she  apologizes 
for  not  doing  better." 

"Beg  her  for  me,"  said  the  young  man,  "to  cheer  up. 
She  may  get  another  chance." 

Old  Michel's  face  froze  into  an  expression  of  anxious  and 
rather  frightened  solicitude,  but  he  waved  his  arm  for  the 
prisoner  to  precede  him,  and  Ste.  Marie  began  to  limp  down 
across  the  littered  and  unkempt  sweep  of  turf.  Behind  him, 
at  the  distance  of  a  dozen  paces,  he  heard  the  shambling 
footfalls  of  his  guard,  but  he  had  expected  that,  and  it  could 
not  rob  him  of  his  swelling  and  exultant  joy  at  treading 
once  more  upon  green  grass  and  looking  up  into  blue  sky. 
He  was  like  a  man  newly  released  from  a  dungeon  rather 
than  from  a  sunny  and  by  no  means  uncomfortable  upper 
chamber.  He  would  have  liked  to  dance  and  sing,  to  run 
at  full  speed  like  a  child  until  he  was  breathless  and  red  in 
the  face.  Instead  of  that  he  had  to  drag  himself  with  slow 
pains  and  some  discomfort,  but  his  spirit  ran  ahead,  dancing 
and  singing,  and  he  thought  that  it  even  halted  now  and 
then  to  roll  on  the  grass. 

As  he  had  observed  a  week  before,  from  the  top  of  the 
wall,  a  double  row  of  larches  led  straight  down  away  from 
the  front  of  the  house,  making  a  wide  and  long  vista  inter 
rupted  half-way  to  its  end  by  a  rond  point,  in  the  centre 
of  which  were  a  pool  and  a  fountain.  The  double  row  of 
trees  was  sadly  broken  now,  and  the  trees  were  untrimmed 
and  uncared  for.  One  of  them  had  fallen,  probably  in  a 
wind-storm,  and  lay  dead  across  the  way.  Ste.  Marie 
turned  aside  toward  the  west  and  found  himself  presently 

236 


JASON 

among  chestnuts,  planted  in  close  rows,  whose  tops  grew 
in  so  thick  a  canopy  above  that  but  little  sunshine  came 
through,  and  there  was  no  turf  under  foot,  only  black  earth, 
hard-trodden,  mossy  here  and  there. 

From  beyond,  in  the  direction  he  had  chanced  to  take, 
and  a  little  toward  the  west,  a  soft  morning  breeze  bore  to 
him  the  scent  of  roses  so  constant  and  so  sweet,  despite 
its  delicacy,  that  to  breathe  it  was  like  an  intoxication.  He 
felt  it  begin  to  take  hold  upon  and  to  sway  his  senses  like 
an  exquisite,  an  insidious  wine. 

"The  flower-gardens,  Michel  ?"  he  asked,  over  his  shoul 
der.  "They  are  before  us?" 

"Ahead  and  to  the  left,  Monsieur,"  said  the  old  man, 
and  he  took  up  once  more  his  slow  and  difficult  progress. 

But  again,  before  he  had  gone  many  steps,  he  was  halted. 
There  began  to  reach  his  ears  a  rich  but  slender  strain  of 
sound,  a  golden  thread  of  melody.  At  first  he  thought  that 
it  was  a  'cello  or  the  lower  notes  of  a  violin,  but  presently 
he  became  aware  that  it  was  a  woman  singing  in  a  half- 
voice  without  thought  of  what  she  sang — as  women  croon 
to  a  child,  or  over  their  work,  or  when  they  are  idle  and 
their  thoughts  are  far  wandering. 

The  mistake  was  not  as  absurd  as  it  may  seem,  for  it  is 
a  fact  that  the  voice  which  is  called  a  contralto,  if  it  is  a 
good  and  clear  and  fairly  resonant  voice,  sounds  at  a  dis 
tance  very  much  indeed  like  a  'cello  or  the  lower  register 
of  a  violin.  And  that  is  especially  true  when  the  voice  is 
hushed  to  a  half-articulate  murmur.  Indeed,  this  is  but 
one  of  the  many  strange  peculiarities  of  that  most  beautiful 
of  all  human  organs.  The  contralto  can  rarely  express  the 
lighter  things,  and  it  is  quite  impossible  for  it  to  express 
merriment  or  gayety,  but  it  can  thrill  the  heart  as  can  no 

237 


JASON 

other  sound  emitted  by  a  human  throat,  and  it  can  shake 
the  soul  to  its  very  innermost  hidden  deeps.  It  is  the  soft, 
yellow  gold  of  singing — the  wine  of  sound;  it  is  mystery; 
it  is  shadowy,  unknown,  beautiful  places;  it  is  enchantment. 
Ste.  Marie  stood  still  and  listened.  The  sound  of  low 
singing  came  from  the  right.  Without  realizing  that  he 
had  moved,  he  began  to  make  his  way  in  that  direction,  and 
the  old  Michel,  carbine  upon  arm,  followed  behind  him. 
He  had  no  doubt  of  the  singer.  He  knew  well  who  it  was, 
for  the  girl's  speaking  voice  had  thrilled  him  long  before 
this.  He  came  to  the  eastern  margin  of  the  grove  of  chest 
nuts  and  found  that  he  was  beside  the  open  rond  point, 
where  the  pool  lay  within  its  stone  circumference,  unclean 
and  choked  with  lily-pads,  and  the  fountain — a  naked  lady 
holding  aloft  a  shell — stood  above.  The  rond  point  was  not 
in  reality  round;  it  was  an  oval  with  its  greater  axis  at  right 
angles  to  the  long,  straight  avenue  of  larches.  At  the  two 
ends  of  the  oval  there  were  stone  benches  with  backs,  and 
behind  these,  tall  shrubs  grew  close  and  overhung,  so  that 
even  at  noonday  the  spots  were  shaded. 


XX 

THE  STONE  BENCH  AT  THE  ROND  POINT 

MLLE.  COIRA  O'HARA  sat  alone  upon  the  stone 
bench  at  the  hither  end  of  the  rond  point.  With  a 
leisurely  hand  she  put  fine  stitches  into  a  mysterious  gar 
ment  of  white,  with  lace  on  it,  and  over  her  not  too  arduous 
toil  she  sang,  a  demi  voix,  a  little  German  song  all  about 
the  tender  passions. 

Ste.  Marie  halted  his  dragging  steps  a  little  way  off,  but 
the  girl  heard  him  and  turned  to  look.  After  that  she  rose 
hurriedly  and  stood  as  if  poised  for  flight,  but  Ste.  Marie 
took  his  hat  in  his  hands  and  came  forward. 

"If  you  go  away,  Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  "if  you  let  me 
drive  you  from  your  place,  I  shall  limp  across  to  that  pool 
and  fall  in  and  drown  myself,  or  I  shall  try  to  climb  the 
wall  yonder  and  Michel  will  have  to  shoot  me." 

He  came  forward  another  step. 

"If  it  is  impossible,"  he  said,  "that  you  and  I  should 
stay  here  together  for  a  few  little  moments  and  talk  about 
what  a  beautiful  day  it  is — if  that  is  impossible,  why  then 
I  must  apologize  for  intruding  upon  you  and  go  on  my 
way,  inexorably  pursued  by  the  would-be  murderer  who 
now  stands  six  paces  to  the  rear.  Is  it  impossible,  Made 
moiselle  ?"  said  Ste.  Marie. 

The  girl's  face  was  flushed  with  that  deep  and  splendid 

239 


JASON 

understain.  She  looked  down  upon  the  white  garment  in 
her  hand  and  away  across  the  broad  rond  point,  and  in  the 
end  she  looked  up  very  gravely  into  the  face  of  the  man 
who  stood  leaning  upon  his  stick  before  her. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  in  her  deep  voice,  "what  my 
father  would  wish.  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  coming 
into  the  garden  this  morning,  or — 

"Or  else,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  with  a  little  touch  of  bitter 
ness  in  his  tone — "or  else  you  would  not  have  been  here. 
You  would  have  remained  in  the  house." 

He  made  a  bow. 

"To-morrow,  Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  "and  for  the  re 
mainder  of  the  days  that  I  may  be  at  La  Lierre,  I  shall  stay 
in  my  room.  You  need  have  no  fear  of  me." 

All  the  man's  life  he  had  been  spoiled.  The  girl's  bear 
ing  hurt  him  absurdly,  and  a  little  of  the  hurt  may  have 
betrayed  itself  in  his  face  as  he  turned  away,  for  she  came 
toward  him  with  a  swift  movement,  saying: 

"No,  no!  Wait! — I  have  hurt  you,"  she  said,  with  a 
sort  of  wondering  distress.  "You  have  let  me  hurt  you. 
.  .  .  And  yet  surely  you  must  see,  .  .  .  you  must  realize  on 
what  terms.  .  .  .  Do  you  forget  that  you  are  not  among  your 
friends  .  .  .  outside  f  .  .  .  This  is  so  very  different!" 

"I  had  forgotten,"  said  he.  "Incredible  as  it  sounds,  I 
h~d  for  a  moment  forgotten.  Will  you  grant  me  your  par 
don  for  that  ?  And  yet,"  he  persisted,  after  a  moment's 
pause — "yet,  Mademoiselle,  consider  a  little!  It  is  likely 
that — circumstances  have  so  fallen  that  it  seems  I  shall  be 
here  within  your  walls  for  a  time,  perhaps  a  long  time.  I 
am  able  to  walk  a  little  now.  Day  by  day  I  shall  be  stronger, 
better  able  to  get  about.  Is  there  not  some  way — are  there 
not  some  terms  under  which  we  could  meet  without  em- 

240 


JASON 

barrassment  ?  Must  we  forever  glare  at  each  other  and 
pass  by  warily,  just  because  we — well,  hold  different  views 
about — something  ?" 

It  was  not  a  premeditated  speech  at  all.  It  had  never 
until  this  moment  occurred  to  him  to  suggest  any  such 
arrangement  with  any  member  of  the  household  at  La 
Lierre.  At  another  time  he  would  doubtless  have  con 
sidered  it  undignified,  if  not  downright  unwise,  to  hold  inter 
course  of  any  friendly  sort  with  this  band  of  contemptible 
adventurers.  The  sudden  impulse  may  have  been  born 
of  his  long  week  of  almost  intolerable  loneliness,  or  it  may 
have  come  of  the  warm  exhilaration  of  this  first  breath  of 
sweet,  outdoor  air,  or  perhaps  it  needed  neither  of  these 
things,  for  the  girl  was  very  beautiful  —  enchantment 
breathed  from  her,  and,  though  he  knew  what  she  was,  in 
what  despicable  plot  she  was  engaged,  he  was  too  much 
Ste.  Marie  to  be  quite  indifferent  to  her.  Though  he 
looked  upon  her  sorrowfully  and  with  pain  and  vicarious 
shame,  he  could  not  have  denied  the  spell  she  wielded. 
After  all,  he  was  Ste.  Marie. 

Once  more  the  girl  looked  up  very  gravely  under  her 
brows,  and  her  eyes  met  the  man's  eyes.  "I  don't  know," 
she  said.  "Truly,  I  don't  know.  I  think  I  should  have  to 
ask  my  father  about  it. — I  wish,"  she  said,  "that  we  might 
do  that.  I  should  like  it.  I  should  like  to  be  able  to  talk 
to  some  one — about  the  things  I  like — and  care  for.  I  used 
to  talk  with  my  father  about  things;  but  not  lately.  There 
is  no  one  now."  Her  eyes  searched  him.  "Would  it  be 
possible,  I  wonder,"  said  she.  "Could  we  two  put  every 
thing  else  aside — forget  altogether  who  we  are  and  why 
we  are  here.  Is  that  possible  ?" 

"We  could  only  try,  Mademoiselle,"  said  Ste.  Marie. 

241 


JASON 

"If  we  found  it  a  failure  we  could  give  it  up."  He  broke 
into  a  little  laugh.  "And  besides,"  he  said,  "I  can't  help 
thinking  that  two  people  ought  to  be  with  me  all  the  time 
I  am  in  the  garden  here — for  safety's  sake.  I  might  catch 
the  old  Michel  napping  one  day,  you  know,  throttle  him, 
take  his  rifle  away,  and  escape.  If  there  were  two,  I  couldn't 
do  it." 

For  an  instant  she  met  his  laugh  with  an  answering  smile, 
and  the  smile  came  upon  her  sombre  beauty  like  a  moment 
of  golden  light  upon  darkness.  But  afterward  she  was 
grave  again  and  thoughtful.  "Is  it  not  rather  foolish," 
she  asked,  "to  warn  us — to  warn  me  of  possibilities  like 
that  ?  You  might  quite  easily  do  what  you  have  said. 
You  are  putting  us  on  our  guard  against  you." 

"I  meant  to,  Mademoiselle,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "I  meant 
to.  Consider  my  reasons.  Consider  what  I  was  pleading 
for!"  And  he  gave  a  little  laugh  when  the  color  began 
again  to  rise  in  the  girl's  cheeks. 

She  turned  away  from  him,  shaking  her  head,  and  he 
thought  that  he  had  said  too  much  and  that  she  was  of 
fended,  but  after  a  moment  the  girl  looked  up,  and  when  she 
met  his  eyes  she  laughed  outright. 

"I  cannot  forever  be  scowling  and  snarling  at  you,"  said 
she.  "It  is  quite  too  absurd.  Will  you  sit  down  for  a 
little  while  ?  I  don't  know  whether  or  not  my  father  would 
approve,  but  we  have  met  here  by  accident,  and  there  can 
be  no  harm,  surely,  in  our  exchanging  a  few  civil  words. 
If  you  try  to  bring  up  forbidden  topics  I  can  simply  go 
away;  and,  besides,  Michel  stands  ready  to  murder  you  if 
it  should  become  necessary.  I  think  his  failure  of  a  week 
ago  is  very  heavy  on  his  conscience." 

Ste.  Marie  sat  down  in  one  corner  of  the  long  stone  bench, 

242 


JASON 

and  he  was  very  glad  to  do  it,  for  his  leg  was  beginning  to 
cause  him  some  discomfort.  It  felt  hot  and  as  if  there  were 
a  very  tight  band  round  it  above  the  knee.  The  relief  must 
have  been  apparent  in  his  face,  for  Mile.  O'Hara  looked  at 
him  in  silence  for  a  moment,  and  she  gave  a  little,  troubled, 
anxious  frown.  Men  can  be  quite  indifferent  to  suffering 
'"n  each  other  if  the  suffering  is  not  extreme,  and  women  can 
be,  too,  but  men  are  quite  miserable  in  the  presence  of  a 
woman  who  is  in  pain,  and  women,  before  a  suffering  man, 
while  they  are  not  miserable,  are  always  full  of  a  desire 
to  do  something  that  will  help.  And  that  might  be  a  small, 
additional  proof — if  any  more  proof  were  necessary — that 
they  are  much  the  more  practical  of  the  two  sexes. 

The  girl's  sharp  glance  seemed  to  assure  her  that  Ste. 
Marie  was  comfortable,  now  that  he  was  sitting  down,  for 
the  frown  went  from  her  brows,  and  she  began  to  arrange 
the  mysterious  white  garment  in  her  lap  in  preparation  to 
go  on  with  her  work. 

Ste.  Marie  watched  her  for  a  while  in  a  contented  silence. 
The  leaves  overhead  stirred  under  a  puff  of  air,  and  a  single 
yellow  beam  of  sunlight  came  down  and  shivered  upon  the 
girl's  dark  head  and  played  about  the  bundle  of  white  over 
which  her  hands  were  busy.  She  moved  aside  to  avoid  it, 
but  it  followed  her,  and  when  she  moved  back  it  followed 
again  and  danced  in  her  lap  as  if  it  were  a  live  thing  with  a 
malicious  sense  of  humor.  It  might  have  been  Tinker  Bell 
out  of  Peter  Pan,  only  it  did  not  jingle.  Mile.  O'Hara  ut 
tered  an  exclamation  of  annoyance,  and  Ste.  Marie  laughed 
at  her,  but  in  a  moment  the  leaves  overhead  were  still  again, 
and  the  sunbeam,  with  a  sense  of  humor,  was  gone  to  tor 
ment  some  one  else. 

Still  neither  of  the  two  spoke,  and  Ste.  Marie  continued 

243 


JASON 

to  watch  the  girl  bent  above  her  sewing.  He  was  thinking 
of  what  she  had  said  to  him  when  he  asked  her  if  she  read 
Spanish — that  her  mother  had  been  Spanish.  That  would 
account,  then,  for  her  dark  eyes.  It  would  account  for  the 
darkness  of  her  skin,  too,  but  not  for  its  extraordinary  clear 
ness  and  delicacy,  for  Spanish  women  are  apt  to  have  dull 
skins  of  an  opaque  texture.  This  was,  he  said  to  himself, 
an  Irish  skin  with  a  darker  stain,  and  he  was  quite  sure  that 
he  had  never  before  seen  anything  at  all  like  it. 

Apart  from  coloring,  she  was  all  Irish,  of  the  type  which 
has  become  famous  the  world  over,  and  which  in  the  opinion 
of  men  who  have  seen  women  in  all  countries,  and  have 
studied  them,  is  the  most  beautiful  type  that  exists  in  our 
time. 

Ste.  Marie  was  dark  himself,  and  in  the  ordinary  nature 
of  things  he  should  have  preferred  a  fair  type  in  women. 
In  theory,  for  that  matter,  he  did  prefer  it,  but  it  was  im 
possible  for  him  to  sit  near  Coira  O'Hara  and  watch  her 
bent  head  and  busy,  hovering  hands,  and  remain  unstirred 
by  her  splendid  beauty.  He  found  himself  wondering  why 
one  kind  of  loveliness  more  than  another  should  exert  a 
potent  and  mysterious  spell  by  virtue  of  mere  proximity, 
and  when  the  woman  who  bore  it  was  entirely  passive.  If 
this  girl  had  been  looking  at  him  the  matter  would  have 
been  easy  to  understand,  for  an  eye-glance  is  often  down 
right  hypnotic;  but  she  was  looking  at  the  work  in  her  hands, 
and,  so  far  as  could  be  judged,  she  had  altogether  forgotten 
his  presence;  yet  the  mysterious  spell,  the  potent  enchant 
ment,  breathed  from  her  like  a  vapor,  and  he  could  not  be 
insensible  to  it.  It  was  like  sorcery. 

The  girl  looked  up  so  suddenly  that  Ste.  Marie  jumped. 
She  said: 

244 


JASON 

"You  are  not  a  very  talkative  person.  Are  you  always 
as  silent  as  this  ?" 

"No,"  said  he,  "I  am  not.  I  offer  my  humblest  apolo 
gies.  It  seems  as  if  I  were  not  properly  grateful  for  being 
allowed  to  sit  here  with  you,  but,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  was 
buried  in  thought." 

They  had  begun  to  talk  in  French,  but  midway  of  Ste. 
Marie's  speech  the  girl  glanced  toward  the  old  Michel, 
who  stood  a  short  distance  away,  and  so  he  changed  to 
English. 

"In  that  case,"  she  said,  regarding  her  work  with  her 
head  on  one  side  like  a  bird — "in  that  case  you  might  at 
least  tell  me  what  your  thoughts  were.  They  might  be 
interesting." 

Ste.  Marie  gave  a  little  embarrassed  laugh. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  he,  "but  I'm  afraid  they  were  too 
personal.  I'm  afraid  if  I  told  you  you'd  get  up  and  go 
away  and  be  frigidly  polite  to  me  when  next  we  passed 
each  other  in  the  garden  here.  But  there's  no  harm,"  he 
said,  "in  telling  you  one  thing  that  occurred  to  me.  It 
occurred  to  me  that,  as  far  as  a  young  girl  can  be  said  to 
resemble  an  elderly  woman,  you  bear  a  most  remarkable 
resemblance  to  a  very  dear  old  friend  of  mine  who  lives 
near  Dublin — Lady  Margaret  Craith.  She's  a  widow,  and 
almost  all  of  her  family  are  dead,  I  believe — I  didn't  know 
any  of  them — and  she  lives  there  in  a  huge  old  house  with 
a  park,  quite  alone  with  her  army  of  servants.  I  go  to  see 
her  whenever  I'm  in  Ireland,  because  she  is  one  of  the 
sweetest  souls  I  have  ever  known." 

He  became  aware  suddenly  that  Mile.  O'Hara's  head 
was  bent  very  low  over  her  sewing  and  that  her  face,  or 
as  much  of  it  as  he  could  see,  was  crimson. 

245 


JASON 

"Oh,  I — I  beg  your  pardon!"  cried  Ste.  Marie.  "I've 
done  something  dreadful.  I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but 
I'm  very,  very  sorry.  Please  forgive  me  if  you  can!" 

"It  is  nothing,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  and  after  a  mo 
ment  she  looked  up  for  the  swiftest  possible  glance  and 
down  again.  "That  is  my — aunt,"  she  said.  "Only — 
please  let  us  talk  about  something  else!  Of  course  you 
couldn't  possibly  have  known." 

"No,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  gravely.  "No,  of  course.  You 
are  very  good  to  forgive  me." 

He  was  silent  a  little  while,  for  what  the  girl  had  told  him 
surprised  him  very  much  indeed,  and  touched  him,  too. 
He  remembered  again  the  remark  of  his  friend  when  O'Hara 
had  passed  them  on  the  boulevard: 

"There  goes  some  of  the  best  blood  that  ever  came  out 
of  Ireland.  See  what  it  has  fallen  to!" 

"It  is  a  curious  fact,"  said  he,  "that  you  and  I  are  very 
close  compatriots  in  the  matter  of  blood — if  'compatriots' 
is  the  word.  You  are  Irish  and  Spanish.  My  mother  was 
Irish  and  my  people  were  Bearnais,  which  is  about  as 
much  Spanish  as  French;  and,  indeed,  there  was  a  great 
deal  of  blood  from  across  the  mountains  in  them,  for  they 
often  married  Spanish  wives." 

He  pulled  the  Bayard  out  of  his  pocket. 

"The  Ste.  Marie  in  here  married  a  Spanish  lady,  didn't 
he  ?" 

The  girl  looked  up  to  him  once  more. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Yes,  I  remember.  He  was  a  brave 
man,  Monsieur.  He  had  a  great  soul.  And  he  died 
nobly." 

"Well,  as  for  that,"  he  said,  flushing  a  little,  "the  Ste. 
Maries  have  all  died  rather  well." 

246 


JASON 

He  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"Though  I  must  admit,"  said  he,  "that  the  last  of  them 
came  precious  near  falling  below  the  family  standard  a 
week  ago.  I  should  think  that  probably  none  of  my  re 
spected  forefathers  was  killed  in  climbing  over  a  garden- 
wall.  Autres  temps,  autres  moeurs." 

He  burst  out  laughing  again  at  what  seemed  to  him 
rather  comic,  but  Mile.  O'Hara  did  not  smile.  She  looked 
very  gravely  into  his  eyes,  and  there  seemed  to  be  something 
like  sorrow  in  her  look.  Ste.  Marie  wondered  at  it,  but 
after  a  moment  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  very  near 
forbidden  ground,  and  that  doubtless  the  girl  was  trying 
to  give  him  a  silent  warning  of  it.  He  began  to  turn  over 
the  leaves  of  the  book  in  his  hand. 

"You  have  marked  a  great  many  pages  here,"  said  he. 

And  she  said:  "It  is  my  best  of  all  books.  I  read  in  it 
very  often.  I  am  so  thankful  for  it  that  there  are  no  words 
to  say  how  thankful  I  am — how  glad  I  am  that  I  have  such 
a  world  as  that  to — take  refuge  in  sometimes  when  this 
world  is  a  little  too  unbearable.  It  does  for  me  now  what 
the  fairy  stories  did  when  I  was  little.  And  to  think  that 
it's  true,  true!  To  think  that  once  there  truly  were  men 
like  that — sans  peur  et  sans  reproche!  It  makes  life  worth 
while  to  think  that  those  men  lived  even  if  it  was  long  ago." 

Ste.  Marie  bent  his  head  over  the  little  book,  for  he 
could  not  look  at  Mile.  O'Hara  just  then.  It  seemed  to 
him  wellnigh  the  most  pathetic  speech  that  he  had  ever 
heard.  His  heart  bled  for  her.  Out  of  what  mean  shad 
ows  had  the  girl  to  turn  her  weary  eyes  upward  to  this  sun 
light  of  ancient  heroism! 

"And  yet,  Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  gently,  "I  think  there 
are  such  men  alive  to-day,  if  only  one  will  look  for  them. 
17  247 


JASON 

Remember,  they  were  not  common  even  in  Bayard's  time. 
Oh  yes,  I  think  there  are  preux  chevaliers  nowadays,  only 
perhaps  they  don't  go  about  things  in  quite  the  same  fash 
ion.  Other  times,  other  manners,"  he  said  again. 

"Do  you  know  any  such  men?"  she  demanded,  facing 
him  with  shadowy  eyes. 

And  he  said:  "Yes,  I  know  men  who  are  in  all  ways 
as  honorable  and  as  high-hearted  as  Bayard  was.  In  his 
place  they  would  have  acted  as  he  did,  but  nowadays  one 
has  to  practise  heroism  much  less  conspicuously — in  the 
little  things  that  few  people  see  and  that  no  one  applauds 
or  writes  books  about.  It  is  much  harder  to  do  brave  little 
acts  than  brave  big  ones." 

"Yes."  she  agreed,  slowly.     "Oh  yes,  of  course." 

But  there  was  no  spirit  in  her  tone,  rather  a  sort  of  apathy. 
Once  more  the  leaves  overhead  swayed  in  the  breeze, 
opened  a  tiny  rift,  and  the  little  trembling  ray  of  sunshine 
shot  down  to  her  where  she  sat.  She  stretched  out  one 
hand  cup-wise,  and  the  sunbeam,  after  a  circling  gyration, 
darted  into  it  and  lay  there  like  a  small  golden  bird  pant 
ing,  as  it  were,  from  fright. 

"If  I  were  a  painter,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  "I  should  be  in 
torture  and  anguish  of  soul  until  I  had  painted  you  sitting 
there  on  a  stone  bench  and  holding  a  sunbeam  in  your 
hand.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  call  the  picture,  but  I 
think  it  would  be  something  figurative — symbolic.  Can 
you  think  of  a  name  ?" 

Coira  O'Hara  looked  up  at  him  with  a  slight  smile,  but 
her  eyes  were  gloomy  and  full  of  dark  shadows.  "It  might 
be  called  any  one  of  a  great  number  of  things,  I  should 
think,"  said  she.  "Happiness — belief — illusion.  See!  The 
sunbeam  is  gone." 

248 


XXI 

A   MIST   DIMS  THE    SHINING    STAR 

STE.  MARIE  remained  in  his  room  all  the  rest  of  that 
day,  and  he  did  not  see  Mile.  O'Hara  again,  for  Michel 
brought  him  his  lunch  and  the  old  Justine  his  dinner.  For 
the  greater  part  of  the  time  he  sat  in  bed  reading,  but  rose 
now  and  then  and  moved  about  the  room.  His  wound 
seemed  to  have  suffered  no  great  inconvenience  from  the 
morning's  outing.  If  he  stood  or  walked  too  long  it  burned 
somewhat,  and  he  had  the  sensation  of  a  tight  band  round 
the  leg;  but  this  passed  after  he  had  lain  down  for  a  little 
while,  or  even  sat  in  a  chair  with  the  leg  straight  out  before 
him;  so  he  knew  that  he  was  not  to  be  crippled  very  much 
longer,  and  his  thoughts  began  to  turn  more  and  more 
keenly  upon  the  matter  of  escape. 

He  realized,  of  course,  that  now,  since  he  was  once  more 
able  to  walk,  he  would  be  guarded  with  unremitting  care 
every  moment  of  the  day,  and  quite  possibly  every  mo 
ment  of  the  night  as  well,  though  the  simple  bolting  of  his 
door  on  the  outside  would  seem  to  answer  the  purpose  save 
when  he  was  out-of-doors.  Once  he  went  to  the  two  east 
windows  and  hung  out  of  them,  testing  as  well  as  he  could 
with  his  hands  the  strength  and  tenacity  of  the  ivy  which 
covered  that  side  of  the  house.  He  thought  it  seemed 
strong  enough  to  give  hand  and  foot  hold  without  being  torn 

249 


JASON 

loose,  but  he  was  afraid  it  would  make  an  atrocious  amount 
of  noise  if  he  should  try  to  climb  down  it,  and,  besides,  he 
would  need  two  very  active  legs  for  that. 

At  another  time  a  fresh  idea  struck  him,  and  he  put  it  at 
once  into  action.  There  might  be  just  a  chance,  when  out 
one  day  with  Michel,  of  getting  near  enough  to  the  wall 
which  ran  along  the  Clamart  road  to  throw  something  over 
it  when  the  old  man  was  not  looking.  In  one  of  his  pockets 
he  had  a  card-case  with  a  little  pencil  fitted  into  a  loop  at 
the  edge,  and  in  the  case  it  was  his  custom  to  carry  postage- 
stamps.  He  investigated  and  found  pencil  and  stamps.  Of 
course  he  had  nothing  but  cards  to  write  upon,  and  they 
were  useless.  He  looked  about  the  room  and  went  through 
an  empty  chest  of  drawers  in  vain,  but  at  last,  on  some 
shelves  in  the  closet  where  his  clothes  had  hung,  he  found 
several  large  sheets  of  coarse  white  paper.  The  shelves  were 
covered  with  it  loosely  for  the  sake  of  cleanliness.  He  ab 
stracted  one  of  these  sheets,  and  cut  it  into  squares  of  the 
ordinary  note-paper  size,  and  he  sat  down  and  wrote  a  brief 
letter  to  Richard  Hartley,  stating  where  he  was,  that  Arthur 
Benham  was  there,  the  O'Haras,  and,  he  thought,  Captain 
Stewart.  He  did  not  write  the  names  out,  but  put  instead 
the  initial  letters  of  each  name,  knowing  that  Hartley  would 
understand.  He  gave  careful  directions  as  to  how  the  place 
was  to  be  reached,  and  he  asked  Hartley  to  come  as  soon  as 
possible  by  night  to  that  wall  where  he  himself  had  made 
his  entrance,  to  climb  up  by  the  cedar-tree,  and  to  drop  his 
answer  into  the  thick  leaves  of  the  lilac  bushes  immediately 
beneath — an  answer  naming  a  day  and  hour,  preferably  by 
night,  when  he  could  return  with  three  or  four  to  help  him, 
surprise  the  household  at  La  Lierre,  and  carry  off  young 
Benham. 

250 


JASON 

Ste.  Marie  wrote  this  letter  four  times,  and  each  of  the 
four  copies  he  enclosed  in  an  awkwardly  fashioned  envelope, 
made  with  infinite  pains  so  that  its  flaps  folded  in  together, 
for  he  had  no  gum.  He  addressed  and  stamped  the  four 
envelopes,  and  put  them  all  in  his  pocket  to  await  the  first 
opportunity. 

Afterward  he  lay  down  for  a  while,  and  as,  one  after  an 
other,  the  books  he  had  in  the  room  failed  to  interest  him, 
his  thoughts  began  to  turn  back  to  Mile.  Coira  O'Hara 
and  his  hour  with  her  upon  the  old  stone  bench  in  the 
garden.  He  realized  all  at  once  that  he  had  been  putting 
off  this  reflection  as  one  puts  off  a  reckoning  that  one  a  little 
dreads  to  face,  and  rather  vaguely  he  realized  why. 

The  spell  that  the  girl  wielded — quite  without  being  con 
scious  of  it;  he  granted  her  that  grace — was  too  potent. 
It  was  dangerous,  and  he  knew  it.  Even  imaginative  and 
very  unpractical  people  can  be  in  some  things  surprising 
ly  matter-of-fact,  and  Ste.  Marie  was  matter-of-fact  about 
this.  The  girl  had  made  a  mysterious  and  unprecedented 
appeal  to  him  at  his  very  first  sight  of  her,  long  before,  and 
ever  since  that  time  she  had  continued,  intermittently  at 
least,  to  haunt  his  dreams.  Now  he  was  in  the  very  house 
with  her.  It  was  quite  possible  that  he  might  see  her  and 
speak  with  her  every  day,  and  he  knew  there  was  peril  in 
that. 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  she  came  to  him,  dark  and  beau 
tiful,  magnetically  vital,  spreading  enchantment  about  her 
like  a  fragrance.  She  sat  beside  him  on  the  moss-stained 
bench  in  the  garden,  holding  out  her  hand  cup-wise,  and  a 
sunbeam  lay  in  the  hand  like  a  little,  golden,  fluttering 
bird.  His  thoughts  ran  back  to  that  first  morning  when  he 
had  narrowly  escaped  death  by  poison.  He  remembered 


JASON 

the  girl's  agony  of  fear  and  horror.  He  felt  her  hands  once 
more  upon  his  shoulders,  and  he  was  aware  that  his  breath 
was  coming  faster  and  that  his  heart  beat  quickly.  He  got 
to  his  feet  and  went  across  to  one  of  the  windows,  and  he 
stood  there  for  a  long  time  frowning  out  into  the  summer 
day.  If  ever  in  his  life,  he  said  to  himself  with  some  de 
liberation,  he  was  to  need  a  cool  and  clear  head,  faculties 
unclouded  and  unimpaired  by  emotion,  it  was  now  in  these 
next  few  days.  Much  more  than  his  own  well-being  de 
pended  upon  him  now.  The  fates  of  a  whole  family,  and 
quite  possibly  the  lives  of  some  of  them,  were  in  his  hands. 
He  must  not  fail,  and  he  must  not,  in  any  least  way,  falter. 

For  enemies  he  had  a  band  of  desperate  adventurers,  and 
the  very  boy  himself,  the  centre  and  reason  for  the  whole 
plot,  had  been,  in  some  incomprehensible  way,  so  played 
upon  that  he,  too,  was  against  him. 

The  man  standing  by  the  window  forced  himself  quite 
deliberately  to  look  the  plain  facts  in  the  face.  He  com 
pelled  himself  to  envisage  this  beautiful  girl  with  her  tragic 
eyes  for  just  what  his  reason  knew  her  to  be — an  adventuress, 
a  decoy,  a  lure  to  a  callow,  impressionable,  foolish  lad,  the 
tool  of  that  arch-villain  Stewart  and  of  the  lesser  villain  her 
father.  It  was  like  standing  by  and  watching  something 
lovely  and  pitiful  vilely  befouled.  It  turned  his  heart  sick 
within  him,  but  he  held  himself  to  the  task.  He  brought  to 
aid  him  the  vision  of  his  lady,  in  whose  cause  he  was  pur 
suing  this  adventure.  For  strength  and  determination  he 
reached  eye  and  hand  to  her  where  she  sat  enthroned, 
calm-browed,  serene. 

For  the  first  time  since  the  beginning  of  all  things  his 
lady  failed  him,  and  Ste.  Marie  turned  cold  with  fear. 

Where  was  that  splendid  frenzy  that  had  been  wont  to 

252 


JASON 

sweep  him  all  in  an  instant  into  upper  air — set  his  feet 
upon  the  stars  ?  Where  was  it  ?  The  man  gave  a  sudden, 
voiceless  cry  of  horror.  The  wings  that  had  such  countless 
times  upborne  him  fluttered  weakly  near  the  earth  and 
could  not  mount.  His  lady  was  there;  through  infinite 
space  he  was  aware  of  her,  but  she  was  cold  and  aloof,  and 
her  eyes  gazed  very  serenely  beyond  at  something  he  could 
not  see. 

He  knew  well  enough  that  the  fault  lay  somewhere  within 
himself.  She  was  as  she  had  ever  been,  but  he  lacked  the 
strength  to  rise  to  her.  Why  ?  Why  ?  He  searched  him 
self  with  a  desperate  earnestness,  but  he  could  find  no 
answer  to  his  questioning.  In  himself,  as  in  her,  there  had 
come  no  change.  She  was  still  to  him  all  that  she  ever  had 
been — the  star  of  his  destiny,  the  pillar  of  fire  by  night,  of 
cloud  by  day,  to  guide  him  on  his  path.  Where,  then,  the 
fine,  pure  fervor  that  should,  at  thought  of  her,  whirl  him 
on  high  and  make  a  god  of  him  ? 

He  stood  wrapped  in  bewilderment  and  despair,  for  he 
could  find  no  answer. 

In  plain  words,  in  commonplace  black-and-white,  the 
man's  anguish  has  an  over-fanciful,  a  wellnigh  absurd 
look,  but  to  Ste.  Marie  the  thing  was  very  real  and  terrible, 
as  real  and  as  terrible  as,  to  a  half-starved  monk  in  his 
lonely  cell,  the  sudden  failure  of  the  customary  exaltation 
of  spirit  after  a  night's  long  prayer. 

He  went,  after  a  time,  back  to  the  bed,  and  lay  down 
there  with  one  upflung  arm  across  his  eyes  to  shut  out  the 
light.  He  was  filled  with  a  profound  dejection  and  a  sense 
of  hopelessness.  Through  all  the  long  week  of  his  im 
prisonment  he  had  been  cheerful,  at  times  even  gay.  How 
ever  evil  his  case  might  have  looked,  his  elastic  spirits  had 

253 


JASON 

mounted  above  all  difficulties  and  cares,  confident  in  the 
face  of  apparent  defeat.  Now  at  last  he  lay  still,  bruised, 
as  it  were,  and  battered  and  weary.  The  flame  of  courage 
burned  very  low  in  him.  From  sheer  exhaustion  he  fell 
after  a  time  into  a  troubled  sleep,  but  even  there  the  enemy 
followed  him  and  would  not  let  him  rest.  He  seemed  to 
himself  to  be  in  a  place  of  shadows  and  fears.  He  strained 
his  eyes  to  make  out  above  him  the  bright,  clear  star  of 
guidance,  for  so  long  as  that  shone  he  was  safe;  but  some 
thing  had  come  between — cloud  or  mist — and  his  star  shone 
dimly  in  fitful  glimpses. 

On  the  next  morning  he  went  out  once  more  with  the  old 
Michel  into  the  garden.  He  went  with  a  stronger  heart, 
for  the  morning  had  renewed  his  courage,  as  bright,  fresh 
mornings  do.  From  the  anguish  of  the  day  before  he  held 
himself  carefully  aloof.  He  kept  his  mind  away  from  all 
thought  of  it,  and  gave  his  attention  to  the  things  about 
him.  It  would  return,  doubtless,  in  the  slow,  idle  hours; 
he  would  have  to  face  it  again  and  yet  again;  he  would 
have  to  contend  with  it;  but  for  the  present  he  put  it  out 
of  his  thoughts,  for  there  were  things  to  do. 

It  was  no  more  than  human  of  him — and  certainly  it  was 
very  characteristic  of  Ste.  Marie — that  he  should  be  half 
glad  and  half  disappointed  at  not  finding  Coira  O'Hara  in 
her  place  at  the  rond  point.  It  left  him  free  to  do  what  he 
wished  to  do — make  a  careful  reconnaissance  of  the  whole 
garden  enclosure — but  it  left  him  empty  of  something  he 
had,  without  conscious  thought,  looked  forward  to. 

His  wounded  leg  was  stronger  and  more  flexible  than  on 
the  day  before;  it  burned  and  prickled  less,  and  could  be 
bent  a  little  at  the  knee  with  small  distress;  so  he  led  the 

254 


JASON 

old  Michel  at  a  good  pace  down  the  length  of  the  enclosure, 
past  the  rose-gardens,  a  tangle  of  unkempt  sweetness,  and 
so  to  the  opposite  wall.  He  found  the  gates  there,  very 
formidable-looking,  made  of  vertical  iron  bars  connected 
by  cross-pieces  and  an  ornamental  scroll.  They  were  fast 
ened  together  by  a  heavy  chain  and  a  padlock.  The  lock 
was  covered  with  rust,  as  were  the  gates  themselves,  and 
Ste.  Marie  observed  that  the  lane  outside  upon  which  they 
gave  was  overgrown  with  turf  and  moss,  and  even  with 
seedling  shrubs;  so  he  felt  sure  that  this  entrance  was  never 
used.  The  lane,  he  noted,  swept  away  to  the  right  toward 
Issy  and  not  toward  the  Clamart  road.  He  heard,  as  he 
stood  there,  the  whir  of  a  tram  from  far  away  at  the  left, 
a  tram  bound  to  or  from  Clamart,  and  the  sound  brought 
to  his  mind  what  he  wished  to  do.  He  turned  about  and 
began  to  make  his  way  round  the  rose-gardens,  which  were 
partly  enclosed  by  a  low  brick  wall  some  two  or  three  feet 
high.  Beyond  them  the  trees  and  shrubbery  were  not  set 
out  in  orderly  rows  as  they  were  near  the  house,  but  grew 
at  will  without  hindrance  or  care.  It  was  like  a  bit  of  the 
Meudon  wood. 

He  found  the  going  more  difficult  here  for  his  bad  leg, 
but  he  pressed  on,  and  in  a  little  while  saw  before  him  that 
wall  which  skirted  the  Clamart  road.  He  felt  in  his  pocket 
for  the  four  sealed  and  stamped  letters,  but  just  then  the 
old  Michel  spoke  behind  him: 

"Pardon,  Monsieur!     Ce  n'est  pas  permis." 

"What  is  not  permitted  ?"  demanded  Ste.  Marie,  wheel 
ing  about. 

"To  approach  that  wall,  Monsieur,"  said  the  old  man, 
with  an  incredibly  gnomelike  and  apologetic  grin. 

Ste.  Marie  gave  an  exclamation  of  disgust.  "Is  it  be- 

255 


JASON 

lieved  that  I  could  leap  over  it  ?"  he  asked.  "A  matter  of 
five  metres  ?  Merci,  non!  I  am  not  so  agile.  You  flatter 
me." 

The  old  Michel  spread  out  his  two  gnarled  hands. 

"Pas  de  ma  faute.  I  have  orders,  Monsieur.  It  will 
be  my  painful  duty  to  shoot  if  Monsieur  approaches  that 
wall."  He  turned  his  strange  head  on  one  side  and  re 
garded  Ste.  Marie  with  his  sharp  and  beadlike  eye.  The 
smile  of  apology  still  distorted  his  face,  and  he  looked 
exactly  like  the  Punchinello  in  a  street  show. 

Ste.  Marie  slowly  withdrew  from  his  pocket  two  louis 
d'or  and  held  them  before  him  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
He  looked  down  upon  them,  and  Michel  looked,  too,  with  a 
gaze  so  intense  that  his  solitary  eye  seemed  to  project  a  very 
little  from  his  withered  face.  He  was  like  a  hypnotized  old 
bird. 

"Mon  vieux,"  said  Ste.  Marie.     "I  am  a  man  of  honor." 

"Surement!  Surement,  Monsieur!"  said  the  old  Michel, 
politely,  but  his  hypnotized  gaze  did  not  stir  so  much  as  a 
hair's-breadth.  "Ca  va  sans  le  dire." 

"A  man  of  honor,"  repeated  Ste.  Marie.  "When  I  give 
my  word  I  keep  it.  Voila!  I  keep  it.  And,"  said  he,  "I 
have  here  forty  francs.  Two  louis.  A  large  sum.  It  is 
yours,  my  brave  Michel,  for  the  mere  trouble  of  turning 
your  back  just  thirty  seconds." 

"Monsieur,"  whispered  the  old  man,  "it  is  impossible. 
He  would  kill  me — by  torture." 

"He  will  never  know,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  "for  I  do  not 
mean  to  try  to  escape.  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  that  I 
shall  not  try  to  escape.  Besides,  I  could  not  climb  over 
that  wall,  as  you  see.  Two  louis,  Michel!  Forty  francs!" 

The  old  man's  hands  twisted  and  trembled  round  the 

256 


JASON 

barrel  of  the  carbine,  and  he  swallowed  once  with  some 
difficulty.  He  seemed  to  hesitate,  but  in  the  end  he  shook 
his  head.  It  was  as  if  he  shook  it  in  grief  over  the  grave  of 
his  first-born.  "It  is  impossible,"  he  said  again.  "Im 
possible."  He  tore  the  beadlike  eye  away  from  those  two 
beautiful,  glowing  golden  things,  and  Ste.  Marie  saw  that 
there  was  nothing  to  be  done  with  him  just  now.  He 
slipped  the  money  back  into  his  pocket  with  a  little  sigh 
and  turned  away  toward  the  rose-gardens. 

"Ah,  well,"  said  he.  "Another  time,  perhaps.  An 
other  time.  And  there  are  more  louis  still,  mon  vieux. 
Perhaps  three  or  four.  Who  knows  ?" 

Michel  emitted  a  groan  of  extreme  anguish,  and  they 
moved  on. 

But  a  few  moments  later  Ste.  Marie  gave  a  sudden  low 
exclamation,  and  then  a  soundless  laugh,  for  he  caught 
sight  of  a  very  familiar  figure  seated  in  apparent  dejection 
upon  a  fallen  tree-trunk  and  staring  across  the  tangled 
splendor  of  the  roses. 


XXII 

A   SETTLEMENT   REFUSED 

CAPTAIN  STEWART  had  good  reason  to  look  de 
pressed  on  that  fresh  and  beautiful  morning  when 
Ste.  Marie  happened  upon  him  beside  the  rose-gardens. 
Matters  had  not  gone  well  with  him  of  late.  He  was  ill 
and  he  was  frightened,  and  he  was  much  nearer  than  is 
agreeable  to  a  complete  nervous  breakdown. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  perils  beset  him  upon  every  side, 
perils  both  seen  and  unseen.  He  felt  like  a  man  who  is 
hunted  in  the  dark,  hard  pressed  until  his  strength  is  gone, 
and  he  can  flee  no  farther.  He  imagined  himself  to  be  that 
man  shivering  in  the  gloom  in  a  strange  place,  hiding  eyes 
and  ears  lest  he  see  or  hear  something  from  which  he  cannot 
escape.  He  imagined  the  morning  light  to  come,  very  slow 
and  cold  and  gray,  and  in  it  he  saw  round  about  him  a 
silent  ring  of  enemies,  the  men  who  had  pursued  him  and 
run  him  down.  He  saw  them  standing  there  in  the  pale 
dawn,  motionless,  waiting  for  the  day,  and  he  knew  that  at 
last  the  chase  was  over  and  he  near  done  for. 

Crouching  alone  in  the  garden,  with  the  scent  of  roses 
in  his  nostrils,  he  wondered  with  a  great  and  bitter  amaze 
ment  at  that  madman — himself  of  only  a  few  months  ago — 
who  had  sat  down  deliberately,  in  his  proper  senses,  to  play 
at  cards  with  Fate,  the  great  winner  of  all  games.  He 

258 


JASON 

wondered  if,  after  all,  he  had  been  in  his  proper  senses, 
for  the  deed  now  loomed  before  him  gigantic  and  hideous  in 
its  criminal  folly.  His  mind  went  drearily  back  to  the 
beginning  of  it  all,  to  the  tremendous  debts  which  had 
hounded  him  day  and  night,  to  his  fear  to  speak  of  them 
with  his  father,  who  had  never  had  the  least  mercy  upon 
gamblers.  He  remembered  as  if  it  were  yesterday  the 
afternoon  upon  which  he  learned  of  young  Arthur's  quarrel 
with  his  grandfather,  old  David's  senile  anger,  and  the 
boy's  tempestuous  exit  from  the  house,  vowing  never  to 
return.  He  remembered  his  talk  with  old  David  later  on 
about  the  will,  in  which  he  learned  that  he  was  now  to  have 
Arthur's  share  under  certain  conditions.  He  remembered 
how  that  very  evening,  three  days  after  his  disappearance, 
the  lad  had  come  secretly  to  the  rue  du  Faubourg  St. 
Honore  begging  his  uncle  to  take  him  in  for  a  few  days, 
and  how,  in  a  single  instant  that  was  like  a  lightning  flash, 
the  Great  Idea  had  come  to  him. 

What  gigantic  and  appalling  madness  it  had  all  been! 
And  yet  for  a  time  how  easy  of  execution!  For  a  time. 
Now.  .  .  .  He  gave  another  quick  shiver,  for  his  mind  came 
back  to  what  beset  him  and  compassed  him  round  about — 
perils  seen  and  hidden. 

The  peril  seen  was  ever  before  his  eyes.  Against  the 
light  of  day  it  loomed  a  gigantic  and  portentous  shadow, 
and  it  threatened  him — the  figure  of  Ste.  Marie  who  knew. 
His  reason  told  him  that  if  due  care  were  used  this  dan 
ger  need  not  be  too  formidable,  and,  indeed,  in  his  heart 
he  rather  despised  Ste.  Marie  as  an  individual;  but  the 
man's  nerve  was  broken,  and  in  these  days  fear  swept 
wavelike  over  reason  and  had  its  way  with  him.  Fear 
looked  up  to  this  looming,  portentous  shadow  and  saw  there 

259 


JASON 

youth  and  health  and  strength,  courage  and  hopefulness, 
and,  best  of  all  armors,  a  righteous  cause.  How  was  an 
ill  and  tired  and  wicked  old  man  to  fight  against  these  ?  It 
became  an  obsession,  the  figure  of  this  youth;  it  darkened 
the  sun  at  noonday,  and  at  night  it  stood  beside  Captain 
Stewart's  bed  in  the  darkness  and  watched  him  and  waited, 
and  the  very  air  he  breathed  came  chill  and  dark  from  its 
silent  presence  there. 

But  there  were  perils  unseen  as  well  as  seen.  He  felt 
invisible  threads  drawing  round  him,  weaving  closer  and 
closer,  and  he  dared  not  even  try  how  strong  they  were  lest 
they  prove  to  be  cables  of  steel.  He  was  almost  certain 
that  his  niece  knew  sorrtething  or  at  the  least  suspected. 
As  has  already  been  pointed  out,  the  two  saw  very  little  of 
each  other,  but  on  the  occasions  of  their  last  few  meetings 
it  had  seemed  to  him  that  the  girl  watched  him  with  a 
strange  stare,  and  tried  always  to  be  in  her  grandfather's 
chamber  when  he  called  to  make  his  inquiries.  Once, 
stirred  by  a  moment's  bravado,  he  asked  her  if  M.  Ste. 
Marie  had  returned  from  his  mysterious  absence,  and  the 
girl  said: 

"No.  He  has  not  come  back  yet,  but  I  expect  him 
soon  now — with  news  of  Arthur.  We  shall  all  be  very  glad 
to  see  him,  grandfather  and  Richard  Hartley  and  I." 

It  was  not  a  very  consequential  speech,  and,  to  tell  the 
truth,  it  was  what  in  the  girl's  own  country  would  be  termed 
pure  "bluff,"  but  to  Captain  Stewart  it  rang  harsh  and  loud 
with  evil  significance,  and  he  went  out  of  that  room  cold 
at  heart.  What  plans  were  they  perfecting  among  them  ? 
What  invisible  nets  for  his  feet  ? 

And  there  was  another  thing  still.  Within  the  past  two 
or  three  days  he  had  become  convinced  that  his  movements 

260 


JASON 

were  being  watched — and  that  would  be  Richard  Hartley 
at  work,  he  said  to  himself.  Faces  vaguely  familiar  began 
to  confront  him  in  the  street,  in  restaurants  and  cafes. 
Once  he  thought  his  rooms  had  been  ransacked  during  his 
absence  at  La  Lierre,  though  his  servant  stoutly  maintained 
that  they  had  never  been  left  unoccupied  save  for  a  half- 
hour's  marketing.  Finally,  on  the  day  before  this  morning 
by  the  rose-gardens,  he  was  sure  that  as  he  came  out  from 
the  city  in  his  car  he  was  followed  at  a  long  distance  by 
another  motor.  He  saw  it  behind  him  after  he  had  left 
the  city  gate,  the  Porte  de  Versailles,  and  he  saw  it  again 
after  he  had  left  the  main  route  at  Issy  and  entered  the 
little  rue  Barbes  which  led  to  La  Lierre.  Of  course,  he 
promptly  did  the  only  possible  thing  under  the  circum 
stances.  He  dashed  on  past  the  long  stretch  of  wall,  swung 
into  the  main  avenue  beyond,  and  continued  through  Cla- 
mart  to  the  Meudon  wood,  as  if  he  were  going  to  St.  Cloud. 
In  the  labyrinth  of  roads  and  lanes  there  he  came  to  a  halt, 
and  after  a  half-hour's  wait  ran  slowly  back  to  La  Lierre. 

There  was  no  further  sign  of  the  other  car,  the  pursuer, 
if  so  it  had  been,  but  he  passed  two  or  three  men  on  bicycles 
and  others  walking,  and  what  one  of  these  might  not  be  a 
spy  paid  to  track  him  down  ? 

It  had  frightened  him  badly,  that  hour  of  suspense  and 
flight,  and  he  determined  to  remain  at  La  Lierre  for  at 
least  a  few  days,  and  wrote  to  his  servant  in  the  rue  du 
Faubourg  to  forward  his  letters  there  under  the  false  name 
by  which  he  had  hired  the  place. 

He  was  thinking  very  wearily  of  all  these  things  as  he  sat 
on  the  fallen  tree-trunk  in  the  garden  and  stared  unsee 
ing  across  tangled  ranks  of  roses.  And  after  a  while  his 
thoughts,  as  they  were  wont  to  do,  returned  to  Ste.  Marie — 

261 


JASON 

that  looming  shadow  which  darkened  the  sunlight,  that 
incubus  of  fear  which  clung  to  him  night  and  day.  He  was 
so  absorbed  that  he  did  not  hear  sounds  which  might  other 
wise  have  roused  him.  He  heard  nothing,  saw  nothing, 
save  that  which  his  fevered  mind  projected,  until  a  voice 
spoke  his  name. 

He  looked  over  his  shoulder  thinking  that  O'Hara  had 
sought  him  out.  He  turned  a  little  on  the  tree-trunk  to 
see  more  easily,  and  the  image  of  his  dread  stood  there  a 
living  and  very  literal  shadow  against  the  daylight. 

Captain  Stewart's  overstrained  nerves  were  in  no  state 
to  bear  a  sudden  shock.  He  gave  a  voiceless,  whispering 
cry  and  he  began  to  tremble  very  violently,  so  that  his 
teeth  chattered.  All  at  once  he  got  to  his  feet  and  began 
to  stumble  away  backward,  but  a  projecting  limb  of  the 
fallen  tree  caught  him  and  held  him  fast.  It  must  be  that 
the  man  was  in  a  sort  of  frenzy.  He  must  have  seen  through 
a  red  mist  just  then,  for  when  he  found  that  he  could  not 
escape  his  hand  went  swiftly  to  his  coat-pocket,  and  in  his 
white  and  contorted  face  there  was  murder  plain  and  un 
mistakable. 

Ste.  Marie  was  too  lame  to  spring  aside  or  to  dash  upon 
the  man  across  intervening  obstacles  and  defend  himself. 
He  stood  still  in  his  place  and  waited.  And  it  was  char 
acteristic  of  him  that  at  that  moment  he  felt  no  fear,  only 
a  fine  sense  of  exhilaration.  Open  danger  had  no  terrors 
for  him.  It  was  secret  peril  that  unnerved  him,  as  in  the 
matter  of  the  poison  a  week  before. 

Captain  Stewart's  hand  fell  away  empty,  and  Ste.  Marie 
laughed. 

"Left  it  at  the  house?"  said  he.  "You  seem  to  have 
no  luck,  Stewart.  First  the  cat  drinks  the  poison,  and  then 

262 


HIS    HAND    WENT    SWIFTLY    TO    HIS    COAT-POCKET 


JASON 

you  leave  your  pistol  at  home.  Dear,  dear,  I'm  afraid 
you're  careless." 

Captain  Stewart  stared  at  the  younger  man  under  his 
brows.  His  face  was  gray  and  he  was  still  shivering,  but 
the  sudden  agony  of  fear,  which  had  been,  after  all,  only  a 
jangle  of  nerves,  was  gone  away.  He  looked  upon  Ste. 
Marie's  gay  and  untroubled  face  with  a  dull  wonder,  and 
he  began  to  feel  a  grudging  admiration  for  the  man  who 
could  face  death  without  even  turning  pale.  He  pulled 
out  his  watch  and  looked  at  it. 

"I  did  not  know,"  he  said,  "that  this  was  your  hour 
out-of-doors." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  quite  forgotten  that  the  ar 
rangement  existed.  When  he  had  first  heard  of  it  he  had 
protested  vigorously,  but  had  been  overborne  by  O'Hara 
with  the  plea  that  they  owed  their  prisoner  something  for 
having  come  near  to  poisoning  him,  and  Stewart  did  not 
care  to  have  any  further  attention  called  to  that  matter; 
it  had  already  put  a  severe  strain  upon  the  relations  at 
La  Lierre. 

"Well,"  observed  Ste.  Marie,  "I  told  you  you  were 
careless.  That  proves  it.  Come!  Can't  we  sit  down  for 
a  little  chat  ?  I  haven't  seen  you  since  I  was  your  guest  at 
the  other  address — the  town  address.  It  seems  to  have 
become  a  habit  of  mine — doesn't  it  ? — being  your  guest." 
He  laughed  cheerfully,  but  Captain  Stewart  continued  to 
regard  him  without  smiling. 

"If  you  imagine,"  said  the  elder  man,  "that  this  place 
belongs  to  me  you  are  mistaken.  I  came  here  to-day  to 
make  a  visit." 

But  Ste.  Marie  sat  down  at  one  end  of  the  tree-trunk  and 
shook  his  head. 

18  263 


JASON 

.  "Oh,  come,  come!"  said  he.  "Why  keep  up  the  pre 
tence  ?  You  must  know  that  I  know  all  about  the  whole 
affair.  Why,  bless  you,  I  know  it  all — even  to  the  pro 
visions  of  the  will.  Did  you  think  I  stumbled  in  here  by 
accident  ?  Well,  I  didn't,  though  I  don't  mind  admitting 
to  you  that  I  remained  by  accident." 

He  glanced  over  his  shoulder  toward  the  one-eyed  Michel, 
who  stood  near-by,  regarding  the  two  with  some  alarm. 

Captain  Stewart  looked  up  sharply  at  the  mention  of  the 
will,  and  he  wetted  his  dry  lips  with  his  tongue.  But  after 
a  moment's  hesitation  he  sat  down  upon  the  tree-trunk,  and 
he  seemed  to  shrink  a  little  together,  when  his  limbs  and 
shoulders  had  relaxed,  so  that  he  looked  small  and  feeble, 
like  a  very  tired  old  man.  He  remained  silent  for  a  few 
moments,  but  at  last  he  spoke  without  raising  his  eyes. 
He  said: 

"And  now  that  you — imagine  yourself  to  know  so  very 
much,  what  do  you  expect  to  do  about  it  ?" 

Ste.  Marie  laughed  again. 

"Ah,  that  would  be  telling!"  he  cried.  "You  see,  in 
one  way  I  have  the  advantage,  though  outwardly  all  the 
advantage  seems  to  be  with  your  side — I  know  all  about 
your  game.  I  may  call  it  a  game  ?  Yes  ?  But  you  don't 
know  mine.  You  don't  know  what  I — what  we  may  do 
at  any  moment.  That's  where  we  have  the  better  of  you." 

"It  would  seem  to  me,"  said  Captain  Stewart,  wearily, 
"that  since  you  are  a  prisoner  here  and  very  unlikely  to 
escape,  we  know  with  great  accuracy  what  you  will  do — 
and  what  you  will  not." 

"Yes,"  admitted  Ste.  Marie,  "it  would  seem  so.  It 
certainly  would  seem  so.  But  you  never  can  tell,  can 


you  ?' 


264 


JASON 

And  at  that  the  elder  man  frowned  and  looked  away. 
Thereafter  another  brief  silence  fell  between  the  two,  but 
at  its  end  Ste.  Marie  spoke  in  a  new  tone,  a  very  serious 
tone.  He  said: 

"Stewart,  listen  a  moment!" 

And  the  other  turned  a  sharp  gaze  upon  him. 

"You  mustn't  forget,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  speaking  slowly 
as  if  to  choose  his  words  with  care — "you  mustn't  forget 
that  I  am  not  alone  in  this  matter.  You  mustn't  forget 
that  there's  Richard  Hartley — and  that  there  are  others, 
too.  I'm  a  prisoner,  yes.  I'm  helpless  here  for  the  pres 
ent — perhaps,  perhaps — but  they  are  not,  and  they  know, 
Stewart.  They  know." 

Captain  Stewart's  face  remained  gray  and  still,  but  his 
hands  twisted  and  shook  upon  his  knees  until  he  hid  them. 

"  I  know  well  enough  what  you're  waiting  for,"  continued 
Ste.  Marie.  "You're  waiting  —  you've  got  to  wait  —  for 
Arthur  Benham  to  come  of  age,  or,  better  yet,  for  your 
father  to  die."  He  paused  and  shook  his  head.  "It's  no 
good.  You  can't  hold  out  as  long  as  that — not  by  half. 
We  shall  have  won  the  game  long  before.  Listen  to  me! 
Do  you  know  what  would  occur  if  your  father  should  take 
a  serious  turn  for  the  worse  to-night — or  at  any  time  ?  Do 
you  ?  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  A  piece  of  information  would 
be  given  him  that  would  make  another  change  in  that  will 
just  as  quickly  as  a  pen  could  write  the  words.  That's 
what  would  happen." 

"That  is  a  lie!"  said  Captain  Stewart,  in  a  dry  whisper. 
"A  lie!" 

And  Ste.  Marie  contented  himself  with  a  slight  smile  by 
way  of  answer.  He  was  by  no  means  sure  that  what  he  had 
said  was  true,  but  he  argued  that  since  Hartley  suspected, 

265 


JASON 

or  perhaps  by  this  time  knew  so  much,  he  would  certainly 
not  allow  old  David  to  die  without  doing  what  he  could  do 
in  an  effort  to  save  young  Arthur's  fortune  from  a  rascal. 
In  any  event,  true  or  false,  the  words  had  had  the  desired 
effect.  Captain  Stewart  was  plainly  frightened  by  them. 

"May  I  make  a  suggestion  ?"  asked  the  younger  man. 

The  other  did  not  answer  him,  and  he  made  it. 

"Give  it  up!"  said  he.  "You're  riding  for  a  tremendous 
fall,  you  know.  We  shall  smash  you  completely  in  the  end. 
It  '11  mean  worse  than  ruin — much  worse.  Give  it  up,  now, 
before  you're  too  late.  Help  me  to  send  for  Hartley  and 
we'll  take  the  boy  back  to  his  home.  Some  story  can  be 
managed  that  will  leave  you  out  of  the  thing  altogether, 
and  those  who  know  will  hold  their  tongues.  It's  your  last 
chance,  Stewart.  I  advise  you  to  take  it." 

Captain  Stewart*  turned  his  gray  face  slowly  and  looked 
at  the  other  man  with  a  sort  of  dull  and  apathetic  wonder. 

"Are  you  mad?"  he  asked,  in  a  voice  which  was  alto 
gether  without  feeling  of  any  kind.  "Are  you  quite 
mad  ?" 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  "I  am  quite  sane, 
and  I'm  offering  you  a  chance  to  save  yourself  before  it's  too 
late.  Don't  misunderstand  me!"  he  continued.  "I  am  not 
urging  this  out  of  any  sympathy  for  you.  I  urge  it  because 
it  will  bring  about  what  I  wish  a  little  more  quickly,  also 
because  it  will  save  your  family  from  the  disgrace  of  your 
smash-up.  That's  why  I'm  making  my  suggestion." 

Captain  Stewart  was  silent  for  a  little  while,  but  after 
that  he  got  heavily  to  his  feet.  "I  think  you  must  be  quite 
mad,"  said  he,  as  before,  in  a  voice  altogether  devoid  of 
expression.  "I  cannot  talk  with  madmen."  He  beckoned 
to  the  old  Michel,  who  stood  near-by,  leaning  upon  his 

266 


JASON 

carbine,  and  when  the  gardener  had  approached  he  said, 
"Take  this — prisoner  back  to  his  room!" 

Ste.  Marie  rose  with  a  little  sigh.  He  said:  "I'm  sorry, 
but  you'll  admit  I  have  done  my  best  for  you.  I've  warned 
you.  I  sha'n't  do  it  again.  We  shall  smash  you  now, 
without  mercy." 

"Take  him  away!"  cried  Captain  Stewart,  in  a  sudden 
loud  voice,  and  the  old  Michel  touched  his  charge  upon  the 
shoulder.  So  Ste.  Marie  went  without  further  words. 
From  a  little  distance  he  looked  back,  and  the  other  man 
still  stood  by  the  fallen  tree-trunk,  bent  a  little,  his  arms 
hanging  lax  beside  him,  and  his  face,  Ste.  Marie  thought, 
fancifully,  was  like  the  face  of  a  man  damned. 


XXIII 

THE    LAST  ARROW 

THE  one  birdlike  eye  of  the  old  Michel  regarded  Ste. 
Marie  with  a  glance  of  mingled  cunning  and  humor. 
It  might  have  been  said  to  twinkle. 

"To  the  east,  Monsieur?"  inquired  the  old  Michel. 

"Precisely!"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "To  the  east,  mon  vieux." 
It  was  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day  after  that  talk  with 
Captain  Stewart  beside  the  rose-gardens. 

The  two  bore  to  the  eastward,  down  among  the  trees, 
and  presently  came  to  the  spot  where  a  certain  trespasser 
had  once  leaped  down  from  the  top  of  the  high  wall  and 
had  been  shot  for  his  pains.  The  old  Michel  halted  and 
leaned  upon  the  barrel  of  his  carbine.  With  an  air  of  com 
plete  detachment,  an  air  vague  and  aloof  as  of  one  in  a 
revery,  he  gazed  away  over  the  tree-tops  of  the  ragged  park; 
but  Ste.  Marie  went  in  under  the  row  of  lilac  shrubs  which 
stood  close  against  the  wall,  and  a  passer-by  might  have 
thought  the  man  looking  for  figs  on  thistles,  for  lilacs  in 
late  July.  He  had  gone  there  with  eagerness,  with  flushed 
cheeks  and  bright  eyes;  he  emerged  after  some  moments, 
moving  slowly,  with  downcast  head. 

"There  are  no  lilac  blooms  now,  Monsieur,"  observed 
the  old  Michel,  and  his  prisoner  said,  in  a  low  voice: 

"No,  mon  vieux.  No.  There  are  none."  He  sighed 

268 


JASON 

and  drew  a  long  breath.  So  the  two  stood  for  some  time 
silent,  Ste.  Marie  a  little  pale,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
ground,  his  hands  chafing  together  behind  him,  the  gar 
dener  with  his  one  bright  eye  upon  his  charge.  But  in 
the  end  Ste.  Marie  sighed  again  and  began  to  move  away, 
followed  by  the  gardener.  They  went  across  the  broad 
park,  past  the  double  row  of  larches,  through  that  space 
where  the  chestnut-trees  stood  in  straight,  close  rows,  and 
so  came  to  the  west  wall  which  skirted  the  road  to  Clamart. 
Ste.  Marie  felt  in  his  pocket  and  withdrew  the  last  of  the 
four  letters — the  last  there  could  be,  for  he  had  no  more 
stamps.  The  others  he  had  thrown  over  the  wall,  one  each 
morning,  beginning  with  the  day  after  he  had  made  the 
first  attempt  to  bribe  old  Michel.  As  he  had  expected, 
twenty-four  hours  of  avaricious  reflection  had  proved  too 
much  for  that  gnomelike  being. 

One  each  day  he  had  thrown  over  the  wall,  weighted 
with  a  pebble  tucked  loosely  under  the  flap  of  the  im 
provised  envelope,  in  such  a  manner  that  it  would  drop  out 
when  the  letter  struck  the  ground  beyond.  And  each  fol 
lowing  day  he  had  gone  with  high  hopes  to  the  appointed 
place  under  the  cedar-tree  to  pick  figs  of  thistles,  lilac 
blooms  in  late  July.  But  there  had  been  nothing  there. 

"Turn  your  back,  Michel!"  said  Ste.  Marie. 

And  the  old  man  said,  from  a  little  distance:  "It  is  turned, 
Monsieur.  I  see  nothing.  Monsieur  throws  little  stones 
at  the  birds  to  amuse  himself.  It  does  not  concern  me." 

Ste.  Marie  slipped  a  pebble  under  the  flap  of  the  en 
velope  and  threw  his  letter  over  the  wall.  It  went  like  a 
soaring  bird,  whirling  horizontally,  and  it  must  have  fallen 
far  out  in  the  middle  of  the  road  near  the  tramway.  For 
the  third  time  that  morning  the  prisoner  drew  a  sigh.  He 

269 


JASON 

said,  "You  may  turn  round  now,  my  friend,"  and  the  old 
Michel  faced  him.  "We  have  shot  our  last  arrow,"  said 
he.  "If  this  also  fails,  I  think — well,  I  think  the  bon  Dieu 
will  have  to  help  us  then. — Michel,"  he  inquired,  "do  you 
know  how  to  pray  ?" 

"Sacred  thousand  swine,  no!"  cried  the  ancient  gnome, 
in  something  between  astonishment  and  horror.  "No, 
Monsieur.  'Pas  mon  metier,  ca!"  He  shook  his  head 
rapidly  from  side  to  side  like  one  of  those  toys  in  a  shop- 
window  whose  heads  oscillate  upon  a  pivot.  But  all  at  once 
a  gleam  of  inspiration  sparkled  in  his  lone  eye.  "There 
is  the  old  Justine!"  he  suggested.  "Toujours  sur  les 
genoux,  cette  imbecile  la." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  "you  might  ask  the  lady 
to  say  one  little  extra  prayer  for — the  pebble  I  threw  at  the 
birds  just  now.  Hein  ?"  He  withdrew  from  his  pocket  the 
last  two  louis  d'or,  and  Michel  took  them  in  a  trembling 
hand.  There  remained  but  the  note  of  fifty  francs  and 
some  silver. 

"The  prayer  shall  be  said,  Monsieur,"  declared  the 
gardener.  "It  shall  be  said.  She  shall  pray  all  night  or 
I  will  kill  her." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "You  are  kindness 
itself.  A  gentle  soul." 

They  turned  away  to  retrace  their  steps,  and  Michel 
rubbed  the  side  of  his  head  with  a  reflective  air. 

"The  old  one  is  a  madman,"  said  he.  (The  "old  one" 
meant  Captain  Stewart.)  "A  madman.  Each  day  he  is 
madder,  and  this  morning  he  struck  me — here  on  the  head, 
because  I  was  too  slow.  Eh!  a  little  more  of  that,  and — 
who  knows?  Just  a  little  more,  a  small  little!  Am  I  a 
dog,  to  be  beaten?  Hein?  Je  ne  le  crois  pas.  He!" 

270 


JASON 

He  called  Captain  Stewart  two  unprintable  names,  and 
after  a  moment's  thought  he  called  him  an  animal,  which 
is  not  so  much  of  an  anti-climax  as  it  may  seem,  because  to 
call  anybody  an  animal  in  French  is  a  serious  matter. 

The  gardener  was  working  himself  up  into  something  of 
a  quiet  passion,  and  Ste.  Marie  said: 

"Softly,  my  friend!  Softly!"  It  occurred  to  him  that 
the  man's  resentment  might  be  of  use  later  on,  and  he  said: 
"You  speak  the  truth.  The  old  one  is  an  animal,  and  he 
is  also,^  great  rascal." 

But  Michel  betrayed  the  makings  of  a  philosopher.  He 
said,  with  profound  conviction:  "Monsieur,  all  men  are 
great  rascals.  It  is  I  who  say  it." 

And  at  that  Ste.  Marie  had  to  laugh. 

He  had  not  consciously  directed  his  feet,  but  without 
direction  they  led  him  round  the  corner  of  the  rose-gardens 
and  toward  the  rond  point.  He  knew  well  whom  he  would 
find  there.  She  had  not  failed  him  during  the  past  three 
days.  Each  morning  he  had  found  her  in  her  place,  and 
for  his  allotted  hour — which  more  than  once  stretched  itself 
out  to  nearly  two  hours,  if  he  had  but  known — they  had  sat 
together  on  the  stone  bench,  or,  tiring  of  that,  had  walked 
under  the  trees  beyond. 

Long  afterward  Ste.  Marie  looked  back  upon  these 
hours  with,  among  other  emotions,  a  great  wonder — at  him 
self  and  at  her.  It  seemed  to  him  then  one  of  the  strangest 
relationships — intimacies,  for  it  might  well  be  so  called — 
that  ever  existed  between  a  man  and  a  woman,  and  he  was 
amazed  at  the  ease,  the  unconsciousness,  with  which  it  had 
come  about. 

But  during  this  time  he  did  not  allow  himself  to  wonder 

271 


JASON 

or  to  examine,  scarcely  even  to  think.  The  hours  were 
golden  hours,  unrelated,  he  told  himself,  to  anything  else 
in  his  life  or  in  his  interests.  They  were  like  pleasant 
dreams,  very  sweet  while  they  endured,  but  to  be  put  away 
and  forgotten  upon  the  waking.  Only  in  that  long  after 
ward  he  knew  that  they  had  not  been  put  away,  that  they 
had  been  with  him  always,  that  the  morning  hour  had  re 
mained  in  his  thoughts  all  the  rest  of  the  long  day,  and  that 
he  had  waked  upon  the  morrow  with  a  keen  and  exquisite 
sense  of  something  sweet  to  come. 

It  was  a  strange  fool's  paradise  that  the  man  dwelt  in, 
and  in  some  small,  vague  measure  he  must,  even  at  the  time, 
have  known  it,  for  it  is  certain  that  he  deliberately  held 
himself  away  from  thought  —  realization;  that  he  delib 
erately  shut  his  eyes,  held  his  ears  lest  he  should  hear 
or  see. 

That  he  was  not  faithless  to  his  duty  has  been  shown. 
He  did  his  utmost  there,  but  he  was  for  the  time  helpless 
save  for  efforts  to  communicate  with  Richard  Hartley, 
and  those  efforts  could  consume  no  more  than  ten  minutes 
out  of  the  weary  day. 

So  he  drifted,  wilfully  blind  to  bearings,  wilfully  deaf  to 
sound  of  warning  or  peril,  and  he  found  a  companionship 
sweeter  and  fuller  and  more  perfect  than  he  had  ever  before 
known  in  all  his  life,  though  that  is  not  to  say  very  much, 
because  sympathetic  companionships  between  men  and 
women  are  very  rare  indeed,  and  Ste.  Marie  had  never  ex 
perienced  anything  which  could  fairly  be  called  by  that 
name.  He  had  had,  as  has  been  related,  many  flirtations, 
and  not  a  few  so-called  love-affairs,  but  neither  of  these  two 
sorts  of  intimacies  are  of  necessity  true  intimacies  at  all; 
men  often  feel  varying  degrees  of  love  for  women  without 

272 


JASON 

the  least  true   understanding  or  sympathy  or  real   com 
panionship. 

He  was  wondering,  as  he  bore  round  the  corner  of  the 
rose-gardens  on  this  day,  in  just  what  mood  he  would  find 
her.  It  seemed  to  him  that  in  their  brief  acquaintance  he 
had  seen  her  in  almost  all  the  moods  there  are,  from  bitter 
gloom  to  the  irrepressible  gayety  of  a  little  child.  He  had 
told  her  once  that  she  was  like  an  organ,  and  she  had 
laughed  at  him  for  being  pretentious  and  high-flown,  though 
she  could  upon  occasion  be  quite  high-flown  enough  herself 
for  all  ordinary  purposes. 

He  reached  the  cleared  margin  of  the  rond  point,  and  a 
little  cold  fear  stirred  in  him  when  he  did  not  hear  her 
singing  under  her  breath,  as  she  was  wont  to  do  when  alone, 
but  he  went  forward  and  she  was  there  in  her  place  upon  the 
stone  bench.  She  had  been  reading,  but  the  book  lay 
forgotten  beside  her  and  she  sat  idle,  her  head  laid  back 
against  the  thick  stems  of  shrubbery  which  grew  behind, 
her  hands  in  her  lap.  It  was  a  warm,  still  morning,  with 
the  promise  of  a  hot  afternoon,  and  the  girl  was  dressed  in 
something  very  thin  and  transparent  and  cool-looking,  open 
in  a  little  square  at  the  throat  and  with  sleeves  which  came 
only  to  her  elbows.  The  material  was  pale  and  dull  yellow, 
with  very  vaguely  defined  green  leaves  in  it,  and  against  it 
the  girl's  dark  and  clear  skin  glowed  rich  and  warm  and 
living,  as  pearls  glow  and  seem  to  throb  against  the  dead 
tints  of  the  fabric  upon  which  they  are  laid. 

She  did  not  move  when  he  came  before  her,  but  looked 
up  to  him  gravely  without  stirring  her  head. 

"I  didn't  hear  you  come,"  said  she.  "You  don't  drag 
your  left  leg  any  more.  You  walk  almost  as  well  as  if  you 
had  never  been  wounded." 

273 


JASON 

"I'm  almost  all  right  again,"  he  answered.  "I  suppose 
I  couldn't  run  or  jump,  but  I  certainly  can  walk  very  much 
like  a  human  being.  May  I  sit  down  ?" 

Mile.  O'Hara  put  out  one  hand  and  drew  the  book 
closer  to  make  a  place  for  him  on  the  stone  bench,  and  he 
settled  himself  comfortably  there,  turned  a  little  so  that 
he  was  facing  toward  her. 

It  was  indicative  of  the  state  of  intimacy  into  which  the 
two  had  grown  that  they  did  not  make  polite  conversation 
with  each  other,  but  indeed  were  silent  for  some  little  time 
after  Ste.  Marie  had  seated  himself.  It  was  he  who  spoke 
first.  He  said: 

"You  look  vaguely  classical  to-day.  I  have  been  trying 
to  guess  why,  and  I  cannot.  Perhaps  it's  because  your — 
what  does  one  say:  frock,  dress,  gown? — because  it  is  cut 
out  square  at  the  throat." 

"If  you  mean  by  classical,  Greek,"  said  she,  "it  wouldn't 
be  square  at  the  neck  at  all;  it  would  be  pointed — V-shaped. 
And  it  would  be  very  different  in  other  ways,  too.  You 
are  not  an  observing  person,  after  all." 

"For  all  that,"  insisted  Ste.  Marie,  "you  look  classical. 
You  look  like  some  lady  one  reads  about  in  Greek  poems — 
Helen  or  Iphigenia  or  Medea  or  somebody." 

"Helen  had  yellow  hair,  hadn't  she?"  objected  Mile. 
O'Hara.  "I  should  think  I  probably  look  more  like  Medea 
— Medea  in  Colchis  before  Jason — " 

She  seemed  suddenly  to  realize  that  she  had  hit  upon  an 
unfortunate  example,  for  she  stopped  in  the  middle  of  her 
sentence  and  a  wave  of  color  swept  up  over  her  throat  and 
face. 

For  a  moment  Ste.  Marie  did  not  understand,  then  he 
gave  a  low  exclamation,  for  Medea  certainly  had  been  an 

274 


JASON 

unhappy  name.  He  remembered  something  that  Rich 
ard  Hartley  had  said  about  that  lady  a  long  time  before. 
He  made  another  mistake,  for  to  lessen  the  moment's  em 
barrassment  he  gave  speech  to  the  first  thought  which  en 
tered  his  mind.  He  said: 

"Some  one  once  remarked  that  you  look  like  the  young 
Juno — before  marriage.  I  expect  it's  true,  too." 

She  turned  upon  him  swiftly. 

"Who  said  that  ?"  she  demanded.  "Who  has  ever  talked 
to  you  about  me  ?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "I  seem  to  be  singular 
ly  stupid  this  morning.  A  mild  lunacy.  You  must  for 
give  me,  if  you  can.  To  tell  you  what  you  ask  would 
be  to  enter  upon  forbidden  ground,  and  I  mustn't  do 
that." 

"Still,  I  should  like  to  know," said  the  girl,  watching  him 
with  sombre  eyes. 

"Well,  then,"  said  he,  "it  was  a  little  Jewish  photographer 
in  the  Boulevard  de  la  Madeleine." 

And  she  said,  "Oh!"  in  a  rather  disappointed  tone  and 
looked  away. 

"We  seem  to  be  making  conversation  chiefly  about  my 
personal  appearance,"  she  said,  presently.  "There  must 
be  other  topics  if  one  should  try  hard  to  find  them.  Tell 
me  stories.  You  told  me  stories  yesterday;  tell  me  more. 
You  seem  to  be  in  a  classical  mood.  You  shall  be  Odys 
seus,  and  I  will  be  Nausicaa,  the  interesting  laundress. 
Tell  me  about  wanderings  and  things.  Have  you  any  more 
islands  for  me  ?" 

Yes,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  nodding  at  her  slowly.  "Yes, 
Nausicaa,  I  have  more  islands  for  you.  The  seas  are  full 
of  islands.  What  kind  do  you  want  ?" 

275 


JASON 

"A  warm  one,"  said  the  girl.  "Even  on  a  hot  day  like 
this  I  choose  a  warm  one,  because  I  hate  the  cold." 

She  settled  herself  more  comfortably,  with  a  little  sigh  of 
content  that  was  exactly  like  a  child's  happy  sigh  when 
stories  are  going  to  be  told  before  the  fire. 

"I  know  an  island,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  "that  I  think  you 
would  like  because  it  is  warm  and  beautiful  and  very  far 
away  from  troubles  of  all  kinds.  As  well  as  I  could  make 
out,  when  I  went  there,  nobody  on  the  island  had  ever  even 
heard  of  trouble.  Oh  yes,  you'd  like  it.  The  people  there 
are  brown,  and  they're  as  beautiful  as  their  own  island. 
They  wear  hibiscus  flowers  stuck  in  their  hair,  and  they 
very  seldom  do  any  work." 

"I  want  to  go  there!"  cried  Mile.  Coira  O'Hara.  "I 
want  to  go  there  now,  this  afternoon,  at  once!  Where 
is  it  ?" 

"It's  in  the  South  Pacific,"  said  he,  "not  so  very  far 
from  Samoa  and  Fiji  and  other  groups  that  you  will  have 
heard  about,  and  its  name  is  Vavau.  It's  one  of  the  Ton- 
gans.  It's  a  high,  volcanic  island,  not  a  flat,  coral  one  like 
the  southern  Tongans.  I  came  to  it,  one  evening,  sailing 
north  from  Nukualofa  and  Haapai,  and  it  looked  to  me  like 
a  single  big  mountain  jutting  up  out  of  the  sea,  black-green 
against  the  sunset.  It  was  very  impressive.  But  it  isn't 
a  single  mountain,  it's  a  lot  of  high,  broken  hills  covered 
with  a  tangle  of  vegetation  and  set  round  a  narrow  bay,  a 
sort  of  fjord,  three  or  four  miles  long,  and  at  the  inner  end 
of  this  are  the  village  and  the  stores  of  the  few  white  traders. 
I'm  afraid,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  shaking  his  head — "I'm  afraid 
I  can't  tell  you  about  it,  after  all.  I  can't  seem  to  find  the 
words.  You  can't  put  into  language — at  least,  I  can't — 
those  slow,  hot,  island  days  that  are  never  too  hot  because 

276 


JASON 

the  trades  blow  fresh  and  strong,  or  the  island  nights  that 
are  more  like  black  velvet  with  pearls  sewed  on  it  than 
anything  else.  You  can't  describe  the  smell  of  orange 
groves  and  the  look  of  palm-trees  against  the  sky.  You 
can't  tell  about  the  sweet,  simple,  natural  hospitality  of  the 
natives.  They're  like  little,  unsuspicious  children.  In 
short,"  said  he,  "I  shall  have  to  give  it  up,  after  all,  just 
because  it's  too  big  for  me.  I  can  only  say  that  it's  beauti 
ful  and  unspeakably  remote  from  the  world,  and  that  I 
think  I  should  like  to  go  back  to  Vavau  and  stay  a  long 
time,  and  let  the  rest  of  the  world  go  hang." 

Mile.  O'Hara  stared  across  the  park  of  La  Lierre  with 
wide  and  shadowy  eyes,  and  her  lips  trembled  a  little. 

"Oh,  I  want  to  go  there!"  she  cried  again.  "I  want  to 
go  there — and  rest — and  forget  everything!"  She  turned 
upon  him  with  a  sudden  bitter  resentment.  "Why  do  you 
tell  me  things  like  that  ?"  she  cried.  "Oh  yes,  I  know.  I 
asked  you,  but — can't  you  see  ?  To  hide  one's  self  away  in 
a  place  like  that!"  she  said.  "To  let  the  sun  warm  you 
and  the  trade-winds  blow  away — all  that  had  ever  tortured 
you!  Just  to  rest  and  be  at  peace!"  She  turned  her  eyes 
to  him  once  more.  "You  needn't  be  afraid  that  you  have 
failed  to  make  me  see  your  island!  I  see  it.  I  feel  it.  It 
doesn't  need  many  words.  I  can  shut  my  eyes  and  I 
am  there.  But  it  was  a  little  cruel.  Oh,  I  know,  I 
asked  for  it.  It's  like  the  garden  of  the  Hesperides, 
isn't  it?" 

"Very  like  it,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  "because  there  are 
oranges — groves  of  them.  (And  they  were  the  golden  apples, 
I  take  it.)  Also,  it  is  very  far  away  from  the  world,  and 
the  people  live  in  complete  and  careless  ignorance  of  how 
the  world  goes  on.  Emperors  and  kings  die,  wars  come  and 

277 


JASON 

go,  but  they  hear  only  a  little  faint  echo  of  it  all,  long  after 
ward,  and  even  that  doesn't  interest  them." 

"I  know,"  she  said.  "I  understand.  Didn't  you  know 
I'd  understand  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  he,  nodding.  "I  suppose  I  did.  We — feel 
things  rather  alike,  I  suppose.  We  don't  have  to  say  them 
all  out." 

"I  wonder,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "if  I'm  glad  or 
sorry."  She  stared  under  her  brows  at  the  man  beside  her. 
"For  it  is  very  probable  that  when  we  have  left  La  Lierre 
you  and  I  will  never  meet  again.  I  wonder  if  I'm — " 

For  some  obscure  reason  she  broke  off  there  and  turned 
her  eyes  away,  and  she  remained  without  speaking  for  a  long 
time.  Her  mind,  as  she  sat  there,  seemed  to  go  back  to  that 
southern  island,  and  to  its  peace  and  loveliness,  for  Ste. 
Marie,  who  watched  her,  saw  a  little  smile  come  to  her 
lips,  and  he  saw  her  eyes  half  close  and  grow  soft  and  tender 
as  if  what  they  saw  were  very  sweet  to  her.  He  watched 
many  different  expressions  come  upon  the  girl's  face  and 
go  again,  but  at  last  he  seemed  to  see  the  old  bitter 
ness  return  there  and  struggle  with  something  wistful  and 
eager. 

"I  envy  you  your  wide  wanderings,"  she  said,  presently. 
"Oh,  I  envy  you  more  than  I  can  find  any  words  for.  Your 
will  is  the  wind's  will.  You  go  where  your  fancy  leads  you, 
and  you're  free — free.  We  have  wandered,  you  know," 
said  she,  "my  father  and  I.  I  can't  remember  when  we 
ever  had  a  home  to  live  in.  But  that  is — that  is  different — 
a  different  kind  of  wandering." 

"Yes,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "Yes,  perhaps."  And  within 
himself  he  said,  with  sorrow  and  pity,  "Different,  indeed!" 

As  if  at  some  sudden  thought  the  girl  looked  up  at  him 

278 


JASON 

quickly.  "Did  that  sound  regretful?"  she  asked.  "Did 
what  I  say  sound — disloyal  to  my  father  ?  I  didn't  mean 
it  to.  I  don't  want  you  to  think  that  I  regret  it.  I  don't. 
It  has  meant  being  with  my  father.  Wherever  he  has  gone 
I  have  gone  with  him,  and  if  anything  ever  has  been — un 
pleasant,  I  was  willing,  oh,  I  was  glad,  glad  to  put  up  with 
it  for  his  sake  and  because  I  could  be  with  him.  If  I  have 
made  his  life  a  little  happier  by  sharing  it,  I  am  glad  of 
everything.  I  don't  regret." 

"And  yet,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  gently,  "it  must  have  been 
hard  sometimes."  He  pictured  to  himself  that  roving 
existence  lived  among  such  people  as  O'Hara  must  have 
known,  and  it  sent  a  hot  wave  of  anger  and  distress  over 
him  from  head  to  foot. 

But  the  girl  said :  "  I  had  my  father.  The  rest  of  it  didn't 
matter  in  the  face  of  that."  After  a  little  silence  she  said, 
"M.  Ste.  Marie!" 

And  the  man  said,  "What  is  it,  Mademoiselle  ?" 

"You  spoke  the  other  day,"  she  said,  hesitating  over  her 
words,  "about  my  aunt,  Lady  Margaret  Craith.  I  suppose 
I  ought  not  to  ask  you  more  about  her,  for  my  father 
quarrelled  with  his  people  very  long  ago  and  he  broke  with 
them  altogether.  But — surely,  it  can  do  no  harm — just 
for  a  moment — just  a  very  little!  Could  you  tell  me  a 
little  about  her,  M.  Ste.  Marie — what  she  is  like  and — and 
how  she  lives — and  things  like  that  ?" 

So  Ste.  Marie  told  her  all  that  he  could  of  the  old  Irish 
woman  who  lived  alone  in  her  great  house,  and  ruled  with 
a  slack  Irish  hand,  a  sweet  Irish  heart,  over  tenants  and 
dependants.  And  when  he  had  come  to  an  end  the  girl 
drew  a  little  sigh  and  said: 

"Thank  you.  I  am  so  glad  to  hear  of  her.  I — wish 
19  279 


everything  were  different,  so  that — I  think  I  should  love 
her  very  much  if  I  might.'.' 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  "will  you  promise  me 
something  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  sombre  eyes,  and  after  a  little 
she  said:  "I  am  afraid  you  must  tell  me  first  what  it  is.  I 
cannot  promise  blindly." 

He  said:  "I  want  you  to  promise  me  that  if  anything  ever 
should  happen — any  difficulty — trouble — anything  to  put 
you  in  the  position  of  needing  care  or  help  or  sympathy — 

But  she  broke  in  upon  him  with  a  swift  alarm,  crying: 
"What  do  you  mean  ?  You're  trying  to  hint  at  something 
that  I  don't  know.  What  difficulty  or  trouble  could  happen 
to  me  ?  Please  tell  me  just  what  you  mean." 

"I'm  not  hinting  at  any  mystery,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "I 
don't  know  of  anything  that  is  going  to  happen  to  you,  but — 
will  you  forgive  me  for  saying  it  ? — your  father  is,  I  take 
it,  often  exposed  to — danger  of  various  sorts.  I'm  afraid  I 
can't  quite  express  myself,  only,  if  any  trouble  should  come 
to  you,  Mademoiselle,  will  you  promise  me  to  go  to  Lady 
Margaret,  your  aunt,  and  tell  her  who  you  are  and  let  her 
care  for  you  ?" 

"There  was  an  absolute  break,"  she  said.     "Complete." 

But  the  man  shook  his  head,  saying: 

"Lady  Margaret  won't  think  of  that.  She'll  think  only 
of  you — that  she  can  mother  you,  perhaps  save  you  grief — 
and  of  herself,  that  in  her  old  age  she  has  a  daughter.  It 
would  make  a  lonely  old  woman  very  happy,  Mademoiselle." 

The  girl  bent  her  head  away  from  him,  and  Ste.  Marie 
saw,  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  known  her,  tears  in  her 
eyes.  After  a  long  time  she  said: 

"I  promise,  then.  But,"  she  said,  "it  is  very  unlikely 

280 


JASON 

that  it  should  ever  come  about — for  more  than  one  reason. 
Very  unlikely." 

"Still,  Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  "I  am  glad  you  have 
promised.  This  is  an  uncertain  world.  One  never  can 
tell  what  will  come  with  the  to-morrows." 

"I  can,"  the  girl  said,  with  a  little  tired  smile  that  Ste. 
Marie  did  not  understand.  "I  can  tell.  I  can  see  all  the 
to-morrows — a  long,  long  row  of  them.  I  know  just  what 
they're  going  to  be  like — to  the  very  end." 

But  the  man  rose  to  his  feet  and  looked  down  upon  her 
as  she  sat  before  him.  And  he  shook  his  head. 

"You  are  mistaken,"  he  said.  "Pardon  me,  but  you 
are  mistaken.  No  one  can  see  to-morrow — or  the  end  of 
anything.  The  end  may  surprise  you  very  much." 

"I  wish  it  would!"  cried  Mile.  O'Hara.  "Oh,  I  wish  it 
would!" 


XXIV 

THE  JOINT  IN  THE  ARMOR 

STE.  MARIE  put  down  a  book  as  O'Hara  came  into 
the  room  and  rose  to  meet  his  visitor. 

"I'm  compelled,"  said  the  Irishman,  "to  put  you  on 
your  honor  to-day  if  you  are  to  go  out  as  usual.  Michel 
has  been  sent  on  an  errand,  and  I  am  busy  with  letters.  I 
shall  have  to  put  you  on  your  honor  not  to  make  any  effort 
to  escape.  Is  that  agreed  to  ?  I  shall  trust  you  altogether. 
You  could  manage  to  scramble  over  the  wall  somehow,  I 
suppose,  and  get  clean  away,  but  I  think  you  won't  try  it 
if  you  give  your  word." 

"I  give  my  word  gladly,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "And  thanks 
very  much.  You've  been  uncommonly  kind  to  me  here. 
I — regret  more  than  I  can  say  that  we — that  we  find  our 
selves  on  opposite  sides,  as  it  were.  I  wish  we  were  fighting 
for  the  same  cause." 

The  Irishman  looked  at  the  younger  man  sharply  for  an 
instant,  and  he  made  as  if  he  would  speak,  but  seemed  to 
think  better  of  it.  In  the  end  he  said : 

"Yes,  quite  so.  Quite  so.  Of  course  you  understand 
that  any  consideration  I  have  used  toward  you  has  been 
by  way  of  making  amends  for — for  an  unfortunate  oc 
currence." 

Ste.  Marie  laughed. 

282 


JASON 

"The  poison,"  said  he.  "Yes,  I  know.  And  of  course 
I  know  who  was  at  the  bottom  of  that.  By  the  way,  I  met 
Stewart  in  the  garden  the  other  day.  Did  he  tell  you  ?  He 
was  rather  nervous  and  tried  to  shoot  me,  but  he  had  left 
his  revolver  at  the  house — at  least  it  wasn't  in  his  pocket 
when  he  reached  for  it." 

O'Hara's  hard  face  twitched  suddenly,  as  if  in  anger, 
and  he  gave  an  exclamation  under  his  breath,  so  the  younger 
man  inferred  that  "old  Charlie"  had  not  spoken  of  their 
encounter.  And  after  that  the  Irishman  once  more  turned 
a  sharp,  frowning  glance  upon  his  prisoner  as  if  he  were 
puzzled  about  something.  But,  as  before,  he  stopped  short 
of  speech  and  at  last  turned  away. 

"Just  a  moment!"  said  the  younger  man.  He  asked: 
"Is  it  fair  to  inquire  how  long  I  may  expect  to  be  confined 
here  ?  I  don't  want  to  presume  upon  your  good-nature 
too  far,  but  if  you  could  tell  me  I  should  be  glad  to 
know." 

The  Irishman  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  said: 

"I  don't  know  why  I  shouldn't  answer  that.  It  can't 
help  you,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  to  do  anything  that  would 
hinder  us.  You'll  stay  until  Arthur  Benham  comes  of  age, 
which  will  be  in  about  two  months  from  now." 

"Yes,"  said  the  other.  "Thanks.  I  thought  so.  Until 
young  Arthur  comes  of  age  and  receives  his  patrimony — 
or  until  old  David  Stewart  dies.  Of  course  that  might 
happen  at  any  hour." 

The  Irishman  said:  "I  don't  quite  see  what —  Ah,  yes, 
to  be  sure!  Yes,  I  see.  Well,  I  should  count  upon  eight 
weeks  if  I  were  you.  In  eight  weeks  the  boy  will  be  inde 
pendent  of  them  all,  and  we  shall  go  to  England  for  the 
wedding." 

283 


JASON 

"The  wedding?"  cried  Ste.  Marie.  "What  wedding? 
—Ah!" 

"Arthur  Benham  and  my  daughter  are  to  be  married," 
said  O'Hara,  "  so  soon  as  he  reaches  his  majority.  I  thought 
you  knew  that." 

In  a  very  vague  fashion  he  realized  that  he  had  expected 
it.  And  still  the  definite  words  came  to  him  with  a  shock 
which  was  like  a  physical  blow,  and  he  turned  his  back 
with  a  man's  natural  instinct  to  hide  his  feeling.  Certainly 
that  was  the  logical  conclusion  to  be  drawn  from  known 
premises.  That  was  to  be  the  O'Haras'  reward  for  their 
labor.  To  Stewart  the  great  fortune,  to  the  O'Haras  a 
good  marriage  for  the  girl  and  an  assured  future.  That 
was  reward  enough  surely  for  a  few  weeks  of  angling  and 
decoying  and  luring  and  lying.  That  was  what  she  had 
meant,  on  the  day  before,  by  saying  that  she  could  see  all 
the  to-morrows.  He  realized  that  he  must  have  been  ex 
pecting  something  like  this,  but  the  thought  turned  him 
sick,  nevertheless.  He  could  not  forget  the  girl  as  he  had 
come  to  know  her  during  the  past  week.  He  could  not 
face  with  any  calmness  the  thought  of  her  as  the  advent 
uress  who  had  lured  poor  Arthur  Benham  on  to  destruc 
tion.  It  was  an  impossible  thought.  He  could  have 
laughed  at  it  in  scornful  anger,  and  yet —  What  else  was 
she  ? 

He  began  to  realize  that  his  action  in  turning  his  back 
upon  the  other  man  in  the  middle  of  a  conversation  must 
look  very  odd,  and  he  faced  round  again  trying  to  drive 
from  his  expression  the  pain  and  distress  which  he  knew 
must  be  there,  plain  to  see.  But  he  need  not  have  troubled 
himself,  for  the  other  man  was  standing  before  the  next 
window  and  looking  out  into  the  morning  sunlight,  and  his 

284 


JASON 

hard,  bony  face  had  so  altered  that  Ste.  Marie  stared  at 
him  with  open  amazement.  He  thought  O'Hara  must  be 
ill. 

"  I  want  to  see  her  married !"  cried  the  Irishman,  suddenly, 
and  it  was  a  new  voice,  a  voice  Ste.  Marie  did  not  know. 
It  shook  a  little  with  an  emotion  that  sat  uncouthly  upon 
this  grim,  stern  man. 

"I  want  to  see  her  married  and  safe!"  he  said.  "I  want 
her  to  be  rid  of  this  damnable,  roving,  cheap  existence.  I 
want  her  to  be  rid  of  me  and  my  rotten  friends  and  my 
rotten  life." 

He  chafed  his  hands  together  before  him,  and  his  tired 
eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  something  that  he  seemed  to 
see  out  of  the  window  and  glared  at  it  fiercely. 

"I  should  like,"  said  he,  "to  die  on  the  day  after  her 
wedding,  and  so  be  out  of  her  way  forever.  I  don't  want 
her  to  have  any  shadows  cast  over  her  from  the  past.  I 
don't  want  her  to  open  closet  doors  and  find  skeletons 
there.  I  want  her  to  be  free — free  to  live  the  sort  of  life 
she  was  born  to  and  has  a  right  to." 

He  turned  sharply  upon  the  younger  man. 

"You've  seen  her!"  he  cried.  "You've  talked  to  her; 
you  know  her!  Think  of  that  girl  dragged  about  Europe 
with  me  ever  since  she  was  a  little  child!  Think  of  the  peo 
ple  she's  had  to  know,  the  things  she's  had  to  see!  Do  you 
wonder  that  I  want  to  have  her  free  of  it  all,  married  and 
safe  and  comfortable  and  in  peace  ?  Do  you  ?  I  tell  you 
it  has  driven  me  as  nearly  mad  as  a  man  can  be.  But  I 
couldn't  go  mad,  because  I  had  to  take  care  of  her.  I 
couldn't  even  die,  because  she'd  have  been  left  alone  with 
out  any  one  to  look  out  for  her.  She  wouldn't  leave  me. 
I  could  have  settled  her  somewhere  in  some  quiet  place  where 

285 


JASON 

she'd  have  been  quit  at  least  of  shady,  rotten  people,  but 
she  wouldn't  have  it.  She's  stuck  to  me  always,  through 
good  times  and  bad.  She's  kept  my  heart  up  when  I'd 
have  been  ready  to  cut  my  throat  if  I'd  been  alone.  She's 
been  the — bravest  and  faithfulest —  Well,  I —  And  look 
at  her!  Look  at  her  now!  Think  of  what  she's  had  to  see 
and  know — the  people  she's  had  to  live  with — and  look  at 
her!  Has  any  of  it  stuck  to  her?  Has  it  cheapened  her 
in  any  lit|lest  way?  No,  by  God!  She  has  come  through 
it  all  like  a — like  a  Sister  of  Charity  through  a  city  slum — 
like  an  angel  through  the  dark." 

The  Irishman  broke  off  speaking,  for  his  voice  was  be 
yond  control,  but  after  a  moment  he  went  on  again,  more 
calmly: 

"This  boy,  this  young  Benham,  is  a  fool,  but  he's  not 
a  mean  fool.  She'll  make  a  man  of  him.  And,  married 
to  him,  she'll  have  the  comforts  that  she  ought  to  have 
and  the  care  and — freedom.  She'll  have  a  chance  to  live 
the  life  that  she  has  a  right  to,  among  the  sort  of  people 
she  has  a  right  to  know.  I'm  not  afraid  for  her.  She'll  do 
her  part  and  more.  She'll  hold  up  her  head  among  duch 
esses,  that  girl.  I'm  not  afraid  for  her." 

He  said  this  last  sentence  over  several  times,  standing 
before  the  window  and  staring  out  at  the  sun  upon  the 
tree-tops. 

"I'm  not  afraid  for  her.  .  .  .  I'm  not  afraid  for  her." 

He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  that  the  younger  man  was 
in  the  room,  for  he  did  not  look  toward  him  again  or  pay 
him  any  attention  for  a  long  while.  He  only  gazed  out  of 
the  window  into  the  fresh  morning  sunlight,  and  his  face 
worked  and  quivered  and  his  lean  hands  chafed  restlessly 
together  before  him.  But  at  last  he  seemed  to  realize 

286 


JASON 

where  he  was,  for  he  turned  with  a  sudden  start  and 
stared  at  Ste.  Marie,  frowning  as  if  the  younger  man  were 
some  one  he  had  never  seen  before.  He  said: 

"Ah,  yes,  yes.  You  were  wanting  to  go  out  into  the 
garden.  Yes,  quite  so.  I — I  was  thinking  of  something 
else.  I  seem  to  be  absent-minded  of  late.  Don't  let  me 
keep  you  here." 

He  seemed  a  little  embarrassed  and  ill  at  ease,  and  Ste. 
Marie  said: 

"Oh,  thanks.  There's  no  hurry.  However,  I'll  go,  I 
think.  It's  after  eleven.  I  understand  that  I'm  on  my 
honor  not  to  climb  over  the  wall  or  burrow  under  it  or 
batter  it  down.  That's  understood.  I — " 

He  felt  that  he  ought  to  say  something  in  acknowledg 
ment  of  O'Hara's  long  speech  about  his  daughter,  but  he 
could  think  of  nothing  to  say,  and,  besides,  the  Irishman 
seemed  not  to  expect  any  comment  upon  his  strange  out 
burst.  So,  in  the  end,  Ste.  Marie  nodded  and  went  out  of 
the  room  without  further  ceremony. 

He  had  been  astonished  almost  beyond  words  at  that 
sudden  and  unlooked-for  breakdown  of  the  other  man's 
impregnable  reserve,  and  dimly  he  realized  that  it  must 
have  come  out  of  some  very  extraordinary  nervous  strain, 
but  he  himself  had  been  in  no  state  to  give  the  Irishman's 
words  the  attention  and  thought  that  he  would  have  given 
them  at  another  time.  His  mind,  his  whole  field  of  mental 
vision,  had  been  full  of  one  great  fact — the  girl  was  to  be 
married  to  young  Arthur  Benham.  The  thing  loomed  gigan 
tic  before  him,  and  in  some  strange  way  terrifying.  He 
could  neither  see  nor  think  beyond  it.  O'Hara's  burst 
of  confidence  had  reached  his  ears  very  faintly,  as  if 
from  a  great  distance  —  poignant  but  only  half-compre- 

287 


JASON 

bended  words  to  be  reflected  upon  later  in  their  own 
time. 

He  stumbled  down  the  ill-lighted  stair  with  fixed,  wide, 
unseeing  eyes,  and  he  said  one  sentence  over  and  over 
aloud,  as  the  Irishman  standing  beside  the  window  had 
said  another. 

"  She  is  going  to  be  married.     She  is  going  to  be  married." 

It  would  seem  that  he  must  have  forgotten  his  previous 
half-suspicion  of  the  fact.  It  would  seem  to  have  re 
mained,  as  at  the  first  hearing,  a  great  and  appalling  shock, 
thunderous  out  of  a  blue  sky. 

Below,  in  the  open,  his  feet  led  him  mechanically  straight 
down  under  the  trees,  through  the  tangle  of  shrubbery 
beyond,  and  so  to  the  wall  under  the  cedar.  Arrived  there, 
he  awoke  all  at  once  to  his  task,  and  with  a  sort  of  frowning 
anger  shook  off  the  dream  which  enveloped  him.  His  eyes 
sharpened  and  grew  keen  and  eager.  He  said: 

"The  last  arrow!  God  send  it  reached  home!"  and  so 
went  in  under  the  lilac  shrubs. 

He  was  there  longer  than  usual;  unhampered  now,  he 
may  have  made  a  larger  search,  but  when  at  last  he  emerged 
Ste.  Marie's  hands  were  over  his  face  and  his  feet  dragged 
slowly  like  an  old  man's  feet. 

Without  knowing  that  he  had  stirred  he  found  himself 
some  distance  away,  standing  still  beside  a  chestnut-tree. 
A  great  wave  of  depression  and  fear  and  hopelessness  swept 
him,  and  he  shivered  under  it.  He  had  an  instant's  wild 
panic,  and  mad,  desperate  thoughts  surged  upon  him.  He 
saw  utter  failure  confronting  him.  He  saw  himself  as  help 
less  as  a  little  child,  his  feeble  efforts  already  spent  for 
naught,  and,  like  a  little  child,  he  was  afraid.  He  would 
have  rushed  at  that  grim  encircling  wall  and  fought  his 

288 


JASON 

way  up  and  over  it,  but  even  as  the  impulse  raced  to  his 
feet  the  momentary  madness  left  him  and  he  turned  away. 
He  could  not  do  a  dishonorable  thing  even  for  all  he  held 
dearest. 

He  walked  on  in  the  direction  which  lay  before  him, 
but  he  took  no  heed  of  where  he  went,  and  Mile.  Coira 
O'Hara  spoke  to  him  twice  before  he  heard  or  saw  her. 


XXV 

MEDEA  GOES  OVER  TO  THE  ENEMY 

I^HEY  were   near  the  east  end  of  the  rond  point,  in  a 
1    space  where  fir-trees  stood  and  the  ground  underfoot 
was  covered  with  dry  needles. 

"I  was  just  on  my  way  to — our  bench  beyond  the  foun 
tain,"  said  she. 

And  Ste.  Marie  nodded,  looking  upon  her  sombrely. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  looked  with  new  eyes,  and  after 
a  little  time,  when  he  did  not  speak,  but  only  gazed  in  that 
strange  manner,  the  girl  said: 

"What  is  it  ?  Something  has  happened.  Please  tell  me 
what  it  is." 

Something  like  the  pale  foreshadow  of  fear  came  over 
her  beautiful  face  and  shrouded  her  golden  voice  as  if  it 
had  been  a  veil. 

"Your  father,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  heavily,  "has  just  been 
telling  me — that  you  are  to  marry  young  Arthur  Benham. 
He  has  been  telling  me." 

She  drew  a  quick  breath,  looking  at  him,  but  after  a 
moment  she  said: 

"Yes,  it  is  true.  You  knew  it  before,  though,  didn't 
you  ?  Do  you  mean  that  you  didn't  know  it  before  ?  I 
don't  quite  understand.  You  must  have  known  that. 
What,  in  Heaven's  name,  did  you  think  ?"  she  cried,  as  if 
with  a  sort  of  anger  at  his  dulness. 

290 


JASON 

The  man  rubbed  one  hand  wearily  across  his  eyes. 

"I — don't  quite  know,"  said  he.  "Yes,  I  suppose  I 
had  thought  of  it.  I  don't  know.  It  came  to  me  with 
such  a — shock!  Yes.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  expect  I 
didn't  think  at  all.  I — just  didn't  think." 

Abruptly  his  eyes  sharpened  upon  her,  and  he  moved  a 
step  forward. 

"Tell  me  the  truth!"  he  said.     "Do  you  love  this  boy  ?" 

The  girl's  cheeks  burned  with  a  swift  crimson  and  she 
set  her  lips  together.  She  was  on  the  verge  of  extreme 
anger  just  then,  but  after  a  little  the  flush  died  down  again 
and  the  dark  fire  went  out  of  her  eyes.  She  made  an  odd 
gesture  with  her  two  hands.  It  seemed  to  express  fatigue 
as  much  as  anything — a  great  weariness. 

"I  like  him,"  she  said.  "I  like  him — enough,  I  sup 
pose.  He  is  good — and  kind — and  gentle.  He  will  be 
good  to  me.  And  I  shall  try  very,  very  hard,  to  make  him 
happy." 

Quite  suddenly  and  without  warning  the  fire  of  her  anger 
burned  up  again.  She  flamed  defiance  in  the  man's  face. 

"How  dare  you  question  me?"  she  cried.  "What  right 
have  you  to  ask  me  questions  about  such  a  thing  ?  You — 
what  you  are!" 

Ste.  Marie  bent  his  head. 

"No  right,  Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice.  "I 
have  no  right  to  ask  you  anything — not  even  forgiveness. 
I  think  I  am  a  little  mad  to-day.  It — this  news  came  to  me 
suddenly.  Yes,  I  think  I  am  a  little  mad." 

The  girl  stared  at  him  and  he  looked  back  with  sombre 
eyes.  Once  more  he  was  stabbed  with  intolerable  pain  to 
think  what  she  was.  Yet  in  an  inexplicable  fashion  it 
pleased  him  that  she  should  carry  out  her  trickery  to  the 

291 


JASON 

end  with  a  high  head.  It  was  a  little  less  base,  done  proud 
ly.  He  could  not  have  borne  it  otherwise. 

"Who  are  you,"  the  girl  cried,  in  a  bitter  resentment, 
"that  you  should  understand  ?  What  do  you  know  of  the 
sort  of  life  I  have  led — we  have  led  together,  my  father  and 
I?  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  I'm  ashamed  of  it!  We  have 
nothing  to  feel  shame  for,  but  you  simply  do  not  know 
what  such  a  life  is." 

Though  he  writhed  with  pain,  the  man  nodded  over  her. 
He  was  so  glad  that  she  could  carry  it  through  proudly, 
with  a  high  hand,  an  erect  head. 

She  spread  out  her  arms  before  him,  a  splendid  and 
tragic  figure. 

"What  chance  have  I  ever  had  ?"  she  demanded.  "No, 
I  am  not  blaming  him.  I  am  not  blaming  my  father.  I 
chose  to  follow  him.  I  chose  it.  But  what  chance  have 
I  had  ?  Think  of  the  people  I  have  lived  among.  Would 
you  have  me  marry  one  of  them — one  of  those  men  ?  I'd 
rather  die.  And  yet  I  cannot  go  on — forever.  I  am  twenty 
now.  What  if  my  father —  You  yourself  said  yesterday — 
Oh,  I  am  afraid!  I  tell  you  I  have  lain  awake  at  night  a 
hundred  times  and  shivered  with  cold,  terrible  fear  of  what 
would  become  of  me  if — if  anything  should  happen — to  my 
father.  And  so,"  she  said,  "when  I  met  Arthur  Benham 
last  winter,  and  he — began  to — he  said — when  he  begged 
me  to  marry  him.  .  .  .  Ah,  can't  you  see  ?  It  meant  safety 
— safety — safety!  And  I  liked  him.  I  like  him  now — 
very,  very  much.  He  is  a  sweet  boy.  I — shall  be  happy 
with  him — in  a  peaceful  fashion.  And  my  father —  Oh, 
I'll  be  honest  with  you,"  said  she.  "It  was  my  father  who 
decided  me.  He  was — he  is — so  pathetically  pleased  with 
it.  He  so  wants  me  to  be  safe.  It's  all  he  lives  for  now. 

292 


JASON 

I  —  couldn't  fight  against  them  both,  Arthur  and  my 
father,  so  I  gave  in.  And  then  when  Arthur  had  to  be 
hidden  we  came  here  with  him — to  wait." 

She  became  aware  that  the  man  was  staring  at  her  with 
something  strange  and  terrible  in  his  gaze,  and  she  broke 
off  in  wonder.  The  air  of  that  warm  summer  morning 
turned  all  at  once  keen  and  sharp  about  them — charged 
with  moment. 

"Mademoiselle!"  cried  Ste.  Marie.  "Mademoiselle,  are 
you  telling  me  the  truth  ?" 

For  some  obscure  reason  she  was  not  angry.  Again  she 
spread  out  her  hands  in  that  gesture  of  weariness.  She 
said,  "Oh,  why  should  I  lie  to  you  ?"  And  the  man  began 
to  tremble  exceedingly.  He  stretched  out  an  unsteady  hand. 

"You — knew  Arthur  Benham  last  winter?"  he  said. 
"Long  before  his — before  he  left  his  home  ?  Before  that  ?" 

"He  asked  me  to  marry  him  last  winter,"  said  the  girl. 
"  For  a  long,  long  time  I — wouldn't.  But  he  never  let  me 
alone.  He  followed  me  everywhere.  And  my  father — 

Ste.  Marie  clapped  his  two  hands  over  his  face,  and  a 
groan  came  to  her  through  the  straining  fingers.  He  cried, 
in  an  agony:  "Mademoiselle!  Mademoiselle!" 

He  fell  upon  his  knees  at  her  feet,  his  head  bent  in  what 
seemed  to  be  an  intolerable  anguish,  his  hands  over  his  hid 
den  face.  The  girl  heard  hard-wrung,  stumbling,  incoherent 
words  wrenched  each  with  an  effort  out  of  extreme  pain. 

"Fool!  Fool!"  the  man  cried,  groaning.  "Oh,  fool  that 
I  have  been!  Worm,  animal!  Oh,  fool  not  to  see — not  to 
know!  Madman,  imbecile,  thing  without  a  name!" 

She  stood  white-faced,  smitten  with  great  fear  over  this 
abasement.  Not  the  least  and  faintest  glimmer  reached 
her  of  what  it  meant.  She  stretched  down  a  hand  of  pro- 

293 


JASON 

test,  and  it  touched  the  man's  head.  As  if  the  touch  were 
a  stroke  of  magic,  he  sprang  upright  before  her. 

"Now  at  last,  Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  "we  two  must 
speak  plainly  together.  Now  at  last  I  think  I  see  clear,  but 
I  must  know  beyond  doubt  or  question.  Oh,  Mademoiselle, 
now  I  think  I  know  you  for  what  you  are,  and  it  seems  to 
me  that  nothing  in  this  world  is  of  consequence  beside  that. 
I  have  been  blind,  blind,  blind! . . .  Tell  me  one  thing.  Why 
did  Arthur  Benham  leave  his  home  two  months  ago  ?" 

"He  had  to  leave  it,"  she  said,  wondering.  She  did  not 
understand  yet,  but  she  was  aware  that  her  heart  was  beat 
ing  in  loud  and  fast  throbs,  and  she  knew  that  some  great 
mystery  was  to  be  made  plain  before  her.  Her  face  was 
very  white.  "He  had  to  leave  it,"  she  said  again.  "Ton 
know  as  well  as  I.  Why  do  you  ask  me  that  ?  He  quar 
relled  with  his  grandfather.  They  had  often  quarrelled  be 
fore — over  money — always  over  money.  His  grandfather  is 
a  miser,  almost  a  madman.  He  tried  to  make  Arthur  sign 
a  paper  releasing  his  inheritance — the  fortune  he  is  to  in 
herit  from  his  father — and  when  Arthur  wouldn't  he  drove 
him  away.  Arthur  went  to  his  uncle — Captain  Stewart — 
and  Captain  Stewart  helped  him  to  hide.  He  didn't  dare 
go  back  because  they're  all  against  him,  all  his  family. 
They'd  make  him  give  in." 

Ste.  Marie  gave  a  loud  exclamation  of  amazement.  The 
thing  was  incredible — childish.  It  was  beyond  the  maddest 
possibilities.  But  even  as  he  said  the  words  to  himself  a 
face  came  before  him — Captain  Stewart's  smiling  and 
benignant  face — and  he  understood  everything.  As  clearly 
as  if  he  had  been  present,  he  saw  the  angry,  bewildered  boy, 
fresh  from  David  Stewart's  berating,  mystified  over  some 
commonplace  legal  matter  requiring  a  signature.  He  saw 

294 


JASON 

him  appeal  for  sympathy  and  counsel  to  "old  Charlie," 
and  he  heard  "old  Charlie's"  reply.  It  was  easy  enough 
to  understand  now.  It  must  have  been  easy  enough  to 
bring  about.  What  absurdities  could  not  such  a  man  as 
Captain  Stewart  instil  into  the  already  prejudiced  mind  of 
that  foolish  lad  ? 

His  thoughts  turned  from  Arthur  Benham  to  the  girl 
before  him,  and  that  part  of  the  mystery  was  clear  also. 
She  would  believe  whatever  she  was  told  in  the  absence  of 
any  reason  to  doubt.  What  did  she  know  of  old  David 
Stewart  or  of  the  Benham  family  ?  It  seemed  to  Ste.  Marie 
all  at  once  incredible  that  he  could  ever  have  believed 
ill  of  her — ever  have  doubted  her  honesty.  It  seemed  to 
him  so  incredible  that  he  could  have  laughed  aloud  in 
bitterness  and  self-disdain.  But  as  he  looked  at  the  girl's 
white  face  and  her  shadowy,  wondering  eyes,  all  laughter, 
all  bitterness,  all  cruel  misunderstandings  were  swallowed 
up  in  the  golden  light  of  his  joy  at  knowing  her,  in  the  end, 
for  what  she  was. 

"Coira!  Coira!"  he  cried,  and  neither  of  the  two  knew 
that  he  called  her  for  the  first  time  by  her  name.  "Oh, 
child,"  said  he,  "how  they  have  lied  to  you  and  tricked 
you!  I  might  have  known,  I  might  have  seen  it,  but  I  was 
a  blind  fool.  I  thought — intolerable  things.  I  might  have 
known.  They  have  lied  to  you  most  damnably,  Coira." 

She  stared  at  him  in  a  breathless  silence  without  move 
ment  of  any  sort.  Only  her  face  seemed  to  have  turned  a 
little  whiter  and  her  great  eyes  darker,  so  that  they  looked 
almost  black  and  enormous  in  that  still  face. 

He  told  her,  briefly,  the  truth:  how  young  Arthur  had 
had  frequent  quarrels  with  his  grandfather  over  his  waste 
of  money,  how  after  one  of  them,  not  at  all  unlike  the  others, 

295 


JASON 

he  had  disappeared,  and  how  Captain  Stewart,  in  desperate 
need,  had  set  afoot  his  plot  to  get  the  lad's  greater  in 
heritance  for  himself.  He  described  for  her  old  David 
Stewart  and  the  man's  bitter  grief,  and  he  told  her  about 
the  will,  about  how  he  had  begun  to  suspect  Captain  Stewart, 
and  of  how  he  had  traced  the  lost  boy  to  La  Lierre.  He 
told  her  all  that  he  knew  of  the  whole  matter,  and  he  knew 
almost  all  there  was  to  know,  and  he  did  not  spare  himself 
even  his  misconception  of  the  part  she  had  played,  though 
he  softened  that  as  best  he  could. 

Midway  of  his  story  Mile.  O'Hara  bent  her  head  and 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  She  did  not  cry  out  or 
protest  or  speak  at  all.  She  made  no  more  than  that  one 
movement,  and  after  it  she  stood  quite  still,  but  the  sight 
of  her,  bowed  and  shamed,  stripped  of  pride,  as  it  had  been 
of  garments,  was  more  than  the  man  could  bear. 

He  cried  her  name,  "Coira!"  And  when  she  did  not  look 
up,  he  called  once  more  upon  her.  He  said:  "Coira,  I  can 
not  bear  to  see  you  stand  so.  Look  at  me.  Ah,  child,  look 
at  me!  Can  you  realize,"  he  cried — "can  you  even  begin 
to  think  what  a  great  joy  it  is  to  me  to  know  at  last  that 
you  have  had  no  part  in  all  this  ?  Can't  you  see  what  it 
means  to  me  ?  I  can  think  of  nothing  else.  Coira,  look  up!" 

She  raised  her  white  face,  and  there  were  no  tears  upon  it, 
but  a  still  anguish  too  great  to  be  told.  It  would  seem  never 
to  have  occurred  to  her  to  doubt  the  truth  of  his  words. 
She  said:  "It  is  I  who  might  have  known.  Knowing  what 
you  have  told  me  now,  it  seems  impossible  that  I  could 
have  believed.  And  Captain  Stewart  —  I  always  hated 
him — loathed  him — distrusted  him.  And  yet,"  she  cried, 
wringing  her  hands,  "how  could  I  know?  How  could  I 
know?" 

296 


JASON 

The  girl's  face  writhed  suddenly  with  her  grief,  and  she 
stared  up  at  Ste.  Marie  with  terror  in  her  eyes.  She  whis 
pered:  "My  father!  Oh,  Ste.  Marie,  my  father!  It  is  not 
possible.  I  will  not  believe — he  cannot  have  done  this, 
knowing.  My  father,  Ste.  Marie!" 

The  man  turned  his  eyes  away,  and  she  gave  a  sobbing 
cry. 

"Has  he,"  she  said,  slowly,  "done  even  this  for  me? 
Has  he  given — his  honor,  also — when  everything  else  was 
— gone  ?  Has  he  given  me  his  honor,  too  ?  Oh,"  she  said, 
"why  could  I  not  have  died  when  I  was  a  little  child  ?  Why 
could  I  not  have  done  that  ?  To  think  that  I  should  have 
lived  to — bring  my  father  to  this!  I  wish  I  had  died.  Ste. 
Marie,"  she  said,  pleading  with  him.  "Ste.  Marie,  do  you 
think — my  father — knew  ?" 

"Let  me  think,"  said  he.  "Let  me  think!  Is  it  possible 
that  Stewart  has  lied  to  you  all — to  one  as  to  another? 
Let  me  think!"  His  mind  ran  back  over  the  matter,  and 
he  began  to  remember  instances  which  had  seemed  to  him 
odd,  but  to  which  he  had  attached  no  importance.  He  re 
membered  O'Hara's  puzzled  and  uncomprehending  face 
when  he,  Ste.  Marie,  had  spoken  of  Stewart's  villany.  He 
remembered  the  man's  indignation  over  the  affair  of  the 
poison,  and  his  fairness  in  trying  to  make  amends.  He  re 
membered  other  things,  and  his  face  grew  lighter  and  he 
drew  a  great  breath  of  relief.  He  said:  "Coira,  I  do  not 
believe  he  knew.  Stewart  has  lied  equally  to  you  all — 
tricked  each  one  of  you."  And  at  that  the  girl  gave  a  cry 
of  gladness  and  began  to  weep. 

As  long  as  men  and  women  continue  to  stand  upon  op 
posite  sides  of  a  great  gulf — and  that  will  be  as  long  as  they 
exist  together  in  this  world — just  so  long  will  men  continue 

297 


JASON 

to  be  unhappy  and  ill  at  ease  in  the  face  of  women's  tears, 
even  though  they  know  vaguely  that  tears  may  mean  just 
anything  at  all,  and  by  no  means  always  grief. 

Ste.  Marie  stood  first  upon  one  foot  and  then  upon  the 
other.  He  looked  anxiously  about  him  for  succor.  He 
said,  "There!  there!"  or  words  to  that  effect,  and  once  he 
touched  the  shoulder  of  the  girl  who  stood  weeping  before 
him,  and  he  was  very  miserable  indeed. 

But  quite  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  his  discomfort,  she 
looked  up  to  him,  and  she  was  smiling  and  flushed,  so  that 
Ste.  Marie  stared  at  her  in  utter  amazement. 

"So  now  at  last,"  said  she,  "I  have  back  my  Bayard. 
And  I  think  the  rest — doesn't  matter  very  much." 

"Bayard?"  said  he,  wondering.  "I  don't  understand," 
he  said. 

"Then,"  said  she,  "you  must  just  go  without  under 
standing.  For  I  shall  never,  never  explain."  The  bright 
flush  went  from  her  face  and  she  turned  grave  once  more. 
"What  is  to  be  done?"  she  asked.  "What  must  we  do 
now,  Ste.  Marie — I  mean  about  Arthur  Benham  ?  I  sup 
pose  he  must  be  told." 

"Either  he  must  be  told,"  said  the  man,  "or  he  must 
be  taken  back  to  his  home  by  force."  He  told  her  about 
the  four  letters  which  in  four  days  he  had  thrown  over  the 
wall  into  the  Clamart  road.  "It  was  on  the  chance,"  he 
said,  "that  some  one  would  pick  one  of  them  up  and  post  it, 
thinking  it  had  been  dropped  there  by  accident.  What 
has  become  of  them  I  don't  know.  I  know  only  that  they 
never  reached  Hartley." 

The  girl  nodded  thoughtfully.  "Yes,"  said  she,  "that 
was  the  best  thing  you  could  have  done.  It  ought  to  have 
succeeded.  Of  course —  She  paused  a  moment  and  then 

298 


JASON 

nodded  again.  "Of  course,"  said  she,  "I  can  manage  to 
get  a  letter  in  the  post  now.  We'll  send  it  to-day  if  you 
like.  But  I  was  wondering — would  it  be  better  or  not  to 
tell  Arthur  the  truth  ?  It  all  depends  upon  how  he  may 
take  it — whether  or  not  he  will  believe  you.  He's  very 
stubborn,  and  he's  frightened  about  this  break  with  his 
family,  and  he  is  quite  sure  that  he  has  been  badly  treated. 
Will  he  believe  you  ?  Of  course,  if  he  does  believe  he  could 
escape  from  here  quite  easily  at  any  time,  and  there 'd  be 
no  necessity  for  a  rescue.  What  do  you  think  ?" 

"I  think  he  ought  to  be  told,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "If  we 
try  to  carry  him  away  by  force  there'll  be  a  fight,  of  course> 
and — who  knows  what  might  happen  ?  That  we  must 
leave  for  a  last  resort — a  last  desperate  resort.  First  we 
must  tell  the  boy."  Abruptly  he  gave  a  cry  of  dismay,  and 
the  girl  looked  up  to  him,  staring.  "  But — but  you,  Coira!" 
said  he,  stammering.  "But  you!  I  hadn't  realized — I 
hadn't  thought — it  never  occurred  to  me  what  this  means 
to  you."  The  full  enormity  of  the  thing  came  upon  him 
slowly.  He  was  asking  this  girl  to  help  him  in  robbing  her 
of  her  lover. 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  little  wry  smile.  "Do  you 
think,"  said  she,  "that  knowing  what  I  know  now  I  would 
go  on  with  that  until  he  has  made  his  peace  with  his  family  ? 
Before,  it  was  different.  I  thought  him  alone  and  ill- 
treated  and  hunted  down.  I  could  help  him  then,  comfort 
him.  Now  I  should  be — all  you  ever  thought  me  if  I  did 
not  send  him  to  his  grandfather."  She  smiled  again  a 
little  mirthlessly.  "  If  his  love  for  me  is  worth  anything," 
she  said,  "he  will  come  back — but  openly  this  time,  not  in 
hiding.  Then  I  shall  know  that  he  is — what  I  would  have 
him  be.  Otherwise — " 

299 


JASON 

Ste.  Marie  looked  away. 

"But  you  must  remember,  Coira,"  said  he,  "that  the 
lad  is  very  young  and  that  his  family — they  may  try — it 
may  be  hard  for  him.  They  may  say  that  he  is  too  young 
to  know —  Ah,  child,  I  should  have  thought  of  this!" 

"Ste.  Marie,"  said  the  girl,  and  after  a  moment  he  turned 
to  face  her.  "What  shall  you  say  to  Arthur's  family,  Ste. 
Marie,"  she  demanded,  very  soberly,  "when  they  ask  you 
if  I  —  if  Arthur  should  be  allowed  to  —  come  back  to 
me  ?" 

A  wave  of  color  flooded  the  man's  face  and  his  eyes 
shone.  He  cried: 

"I  shall  tell  them,  Coira,  that  if  that  wretched,  half- 
baked  lad  should  search  this  wide  world  round,  from  Paris 
on  to  Paris  again,  and  if  he  should  spend  a  lifetime  search 
ing,  he  would  never  find  the  beauty  and  the  sweetness  and 
the  tenderness  and  the  true  faith  that  he  left  behind  at 
La  Lierre — nor  the  hundredth  part  of  them.  I  should  say 
that  you  are  so  much  above  him  that  he  ought  to  creep  to 
you  on  his  knees  from  the  rue  de  1'Universite  to  this  gar 
den,  thanking  God  that  you  were  here  at  the  journey's  end, 
and  kissing  the  ground  that  he  dragged  himself  over  for 
sheer  joy  and  gratitude.  I  should  tell  them —  Oh,  I 
have  no  words!  I  could  tell  them  so  pitifully  little  of  you! 
I  think  I  should  only  say,  'Go  to  her  and  see!'  I  think  I 
should  just  say  that." 

The  girl  turned  her  head  away  with  a  little  sob.  But 
afterward  she  faced  him  once  more,  and  she  looked  up  to 
him  with  sweet,  half-shut  eyes  for  a  long  time.  At  last  she 
said: 

"For  love  of  whom,  Ste.  Marie,  did  you  undertake  this 
quest — this  search  for  Arthur  Benham  ?  It  was  not  in  idle- 

300 


JASON 

ness  or  by  way  of  a  whim.  It  was  for  love.  For  love  of 
whom  ?" 

For  some  strange  and  inexplicable  reason  the  words 
struck  him  like  a  blow  and  he  stared  whitely. 

"I  came,"  he  said,  at  last,  and  his  voice  was  oddly  flat, 
"for  his  sister's  sake.  For  love  of  her." 

Coira  O'Hara  dropped  her  eyes.  But  presently  she 
looked  up  again  with  a  smile.  She  said,  "God  make  you 
happy,  my  friend." 

And  she  turned  and  moved  away  from  him  up  among 
the  trees.  At  a  little  distance  she  turned,  saying: 

"Wait  where  you  are.  I  will  fetch  Arthur  or  send  him 
to  you.  He  must  be  told  at  once." 

Then  she  went  on  and  was  lost  to  sight. 

Ste.  Marie  followed  a  few  steps  after  her  and  halted. 
His  face  was  turned  by  chance  toward  the  east  wall,  and 
suddenly  he  gave  a  great  cry  and  smothered  it  with  his 
hands  over  his  mouth.  His  knees  bent  under  him,  and 
he  was  weak  and  trembling.  Then  he  began  to  run.  He 
ran  with  awkward  steps,  for  his  leg  was  not  yet  entirely 
recovered,  but  he  ran  fast,  and  his  heart  beat  within  him 
until  he  thought  it  must  burst. 

He  was  making  for  that  spot  which  was  overhung  by  the 
half-dead  cedar-tree. 


XXVI 

BUT  THE   FLEECE    ELECTS  TO  REMAIN 

STE.  MARIE  came  under  the  wall  breathless  and 
shaking.  What  he  had  seen  there  from  a  distance 
was  no  longer  visible,  but  he  pressed  in  close  among  the 
lilac  shrubs  and  called  out  in  an  unsteady  voice.  He  said: 
"Who  is  there?  Who  is  it?"  And  after  a  moment  he 
called  again. 

A  hand  appeared  at  the  top  of  the  high  wall.  The 
drooping  screen  of  foliage  was  thrust  aside,  and  he  saw 
Richard  Hartley's  face  looking  down.  Ste.  Marie  held  him 
self  by  the  strong  stems  of  the  lilacs,  for  once  more  his 
knees  had  weakened  under  him. 

"There's  no  one  in  sight,"  Hartley  said.  "I  can  see  for 
a  long  way.  No  one  can  see  us  or  hear  us."  And  he 
said:  "I  got  your  letter  this  morning — an  hour  ago.  When 
shall  we  come  to  get  you  out — you  and  the  boy?  To 
night  ?" 

"To-night  at  two,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  He  spoke  in  a 
loud  whisper.  "I'm  to  talk  with  Arthur  here  in  a  few 
minutes.  We  must  be  quick.  He  may  come  at  any  time. 
I  shall  try  to  persuade  him  to  go  home  willingly,  but  if  he 
refuses  we  must  take  him  by  force.  Bring  a  couple  of  good 
men  with  you  to-night,  and  see  that  they're  armed.  Come 
in  a  motor  and  leave  it  just  outside  the  wall  by  that  small 

302 


JASON 

door  that  you  passed.  Have  you  any  money  in  your 
pockets  ?  I  may  want  to  bribe  the  gardener." 

Hartley  searched  in  his  pockets,  and  while  he  did  so  the 
man  beneath  asked: 

"Is  old  David  Stewart  alive?" 

"Just  about,"  Hartley  said.  "He's  very  low,  and  he 
suffers  a  great  deal,  but  he's  quite  conscious  all  the  time. 
If  we  can  fetch  the  boy  to  him  it  may  give  him  a  turn  for 
the  better.  Where  is  Captain  Stewart  ?  I  had  spies  on  his 
trail  for  some  time,  but  he  has  disappeared  within  the  past 
three  or  four  days.  Once  I  followed  him  in  his  motor-car 
out  past  here,  but  I  lost  him  beyond  Clamart." 

"He's  here,  I  think,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "I  saw  him  a 
few  days  ago." 

The  man  on  the  wall  had  found  two  notes  of  a  hundred 
francs  each,  and  he  dropped  them  down  to  Ste.  Marie's 
hands.  Also  he  gave  him  a  small  revolver  which  he  had 
in  his  pocket,  one  of  the  little  automatic  weapons  such  as 
Olga  Nilssen  had  brought  to  the  rue  du  Faubourg  St. 
Honore.  Afterward  he  glanced  up  and  said: 

"Two  people  are  coming  out  of  the  house.  I  shall  have 
to  go.  At  two  to-night,  then — and  at  this  spot.  We  shall 
be  on  time." 

He  drew  back  out  of  sight,  and  the  other  man  heard  the 
cedar-tree  shake  slightly  as  he  went  down  it  to  the  ground. 
Then  Ste.  Marie  turned  and  walked  quickly  back  to  the 
place  where  Mile.  O'Hara  had  left  him.  His  heart  was 
leaping  with  joy  and  exultation,  for  now  at  last  he  thought 
that  the  end  was  in  sight — the  end  he  had  so  long  labored 
and  hoped  for.  He  knew  that  his  face  must  be  flushed  and 
his  eyes  bright,  and  he  made  a  strong  effort  to  crush  down 
these  tokens  of  his  triumph — to  make  his  bearing  seem 

3°3 


JASON 

natural   and  easy.     He    might   have  spared   himself  the 
pains. 

Young  Arthur  Benham  and  Coira  O'Hara  came  together 
down  under  the  trees  from  the  house.  They  walked  swiftly, 
and  the  boy  was  a  step  in  advance,  his  face  white  with  ex 
citement  and  anger.  He  began  to  speak  while  he  was  still 
some  distance  away.  He  cried  out,  in  his  strident  young 
voice : 

"What  the  devil  is  all  this  silly  nonsense  about  old 
Charlie  and  lies  and  misunderstandings  and — and  all  that 
guff?"  he  demanded.  "What  the  devil  is  it?  D'you 
think  I'm  a  fool?  D'you  think  I'm  a  kid?  Well,  I'm 
not!" 

He  came  close  to  Ste.  Marie,  staring  at  him  with  an 
angry  scowl,  but  his  scowl  twitched  and  wavered  and  his 
hands  shook  a  little  beside  him  and  his  breath  came  ir,- 
regularly.  He  was  frightened. 

"There  is  no  nonsense,"  said  Ste.  Marie.  "There  is  no 
nonsense  in  all  this  whole  sorry  business.  But  there  has 
been  a  great  deal  of  misunderstanding  and  a  great  many 
lies  and  not  a  little  cruelty.  It's  time  you  knew  the  truth 
at  last."  He  turned  his  eyes  to  where  Coira  O'Hara  stood 
near-by.  "How  much  have  you  told  him  ?"  he  asked. 

And  the  girl  said:  "I  told  him  everything,  or  almost. 
But  I  had  to  say  it  very  quickly,  and — he  wouldn't  believe 
me.  I  think  you'd  best  tell  him  again." 

The  boy  gave  a  short,  contemptuous  laugh. 

"Well,  I  don't  want  to  hear  it,"  said  he. 

He  was  looking  toward  the  girl.     He  said: 

"This  fellow  may  be  able  to  hypnotize  you,  all  right, 
but  not  Willie.  Little  Willie's  wise  to  guys  like  him." 

And  swinging  about  to  Ste.  Marie,  he  cried: 
304 


JASON 

"Forget  it!  For-get  it!  I  don't  want  to  listen  to  your 
little  song  to-day.  Ah,  you  make  me  sick!  You'd  try  to 
make  me  turn  on  old  Charlie,  would  you  ?  Why,  old  Char 
lie's  the  only  real  friend  I've  got  in  the  world.  Old  Char 
lie  has  always  stood  up  for  me  against  the  whole  bunch  of 
them.  Forget  it,  George!  I'm  wise  to  your  graft." 

Ste.  Marie  frowned,  for  his  temper  was  never  of  the  most 
patient,  and  the  youth's  sneering  tone  annoyed  him. 
Truth  to  tell,  the  tone  was  about  all  he  understood,  for  the 
strange  words  were  incomprehensible. 

"Look  here,  Benham,"  he  said,  sharply,  "you  and  I 
have  never  met,  I  believe,  but  we  have  a  good  many  friends 
in  common,  and  I  think  we  know  something  about  each 
other.  Have  you  ever  heard  anything  about  me  which 
would  give  you  the  right  to  suspect  me  of  any  dishonesty 
of  any  sort  ?  Have  you  ?" 

"Oh,  slush!"  said  the  boy.  "Anybody '11  be  dishonest  if 
it's  worth  his  while." 

"That  happens  to  be  untrue,"  Ste.  Marie  remarked, 
"and  as  you  grow  older  you  will  know  it.  Leaving  my 
honesty  out  of  the  question  if  you  like,  I  have  the  honor  to 
tell  you  that  I  am,  perhaps  not  quite  formally,  engaged  to 
your  sister,  and  it  is  on  her  account,  for  her  sake,  that  I 
am  here.  You  will  hardly  presume,  I  take  it,  to  question 
your  sister's  motive  in  wanting  you  to  return  home  ?  In 
cidentally,  your  grandfather  is  so  overcome  by  grief  over 
your  absence  that  he  is  expected  to  die  at  any  time.  Come," 
said  he,  "I  have  said  enough  to  convince  you  that  you 
must  listen  to  me.  Believe  what  you  please,  but  listen  to 
me  for  five  minutes.  After  that  I  have  small  doubt  of  what 
you  will  do." 

The   boy  looked   nervously   from   Ste.  Marie  to  Mile. 

3°5 


JASON 

O'Hara  and  back  again.  He  thrust  his  unsteady  hands  into 
his  pockets,  but  withdrew  them  after  a  moment  and  clasped 
them  together  behind  him. 

"I  tell  you,"  he  burst  out,  at  last — "I  tell  you,  it's  no 
good  your  trying  to  knock  old  Charlie  to  me.  I  won't 
stand  for  it.  Old  Charlie's  my  best  friend,  and  I'd  believe 
him  before  I'd  believe  anybody  in  the  world.  You've  got 
a  knife  out  for  old  Charlie,  that's  what's  the  matter  with 
you." 

"And  your  sister?"  suggested  Ste.  Marie.  "Your 
mother  ?  You'd  hardly  know  your  mother  if  you  could 
see  her  to-day.  It  has  pretty  nearly  killed  her." 

"Ah,  they're  all — they're  all  against  me!"  the  lad  cried. 
"They've  always  stood  together  against  me.  Helen,  too!" 

"You  wouldn't  think  they  were  against  you  if  you  could 
just  see  them  once  now,"  said  Ste.  Marie. 

And  Arthur  Benham  gave  a  sort  of  shamefaced  sob, 
saying: 

"Ah,  cut  it  out!  Cut  it  out!  Go  on,  then,  and  talk,  if 
you  want  to,  7  don't  care.  I  don't  have  to  listen.  Talk, 
if  you're  pining  for  it." 

And  Ste.  Marie,  as  briefly  as  he  could,  told  him  the 
truth  of  the  whole  affair  from  the  beginning,  as  he  had 
told  it  to  Coira  O'Hara.  Only  he  laid  special  stress  upon 
Charles  Stewart's  present  expectations  from  the  new  will, 
and  he  assured  the  boy  that  no  document  his  grandfather 
might  have  asked  him  to  sign  could  have  given  away 
his  rights  in  his  father's  fortune,  since  he  was  a  minor  and 
had  no  legal  right  to  sign  away  anything  at  all  even  if  he 
wished  to. 

"If  you  will  look  back  as  calmly  and  carefully  as  you 
can,"  he  said,  "you  will  find  that  you  didn't  begin  to  sus- 

306 


JASON 

pect  your  grandfather  of  anything  wrong  until  you  had 
talked  with  Captain  Stewart.  It  was  your  uncle's  explana 
tion  of  the  thing  that  made  you  do  that.  Well,  remember 
what  he  had  at  stake — I  suppose  it  is  a  matter  of  several 
millions  of  francs.  And  he  needs  them.  His  affairs  are 
in  a  bad  way." 

He  told  also  about  the  pretended  search  which  Captain 
Stewart  had  so  long  maintained,  and  of  how  he  had  tried 
to  mislead  the  other  searchers  whose  motives  were  honest. 

"It  has  been  a  gigantic  gamble,  my  friend,"  he  said,  at 
the  last.  "A  gigantic  and  desperate  gamble  to  get  the 
money  that  should  be  yours.  You  can  end  it  by  the  mere 
trouble  of  climbing  over  that  wall  yonder  and  taking  the 
Clamart  tram  back  to  Paris.  As  easily  as  that  you  can 
end  it — and,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  you  can  at  the  same  time 
save  an  old  man's  life — prolong  it  at  the  very  least."  He 
took  a  step  forward.  "I  beg  you  to  go!"  he  said,  very 
earnestly.  "You  know  the  whole  truth  now.  You  must 
see  what  danger  you  have  been  and  are  in.  You  must 
know  that  I  am  telling  you  the  truth.  I  beg  you  to  go 
back  to  Paris." 

And  from  where  she  stood,  a  little  aside,  Coira  O'Hara 
said:  "I  beg  you,  too,  Arthur.  Go  back  to  them." 

The  boy  dropped  down  upon  a  tree-stump  which  was 
near  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  The  two  who 
watched  him  could  see  that  he  was  trembling  violently. 
Over  him  their  eyes  met  and  they  questioned  each  other 
with  a  mute  and  anxious  gravity: 

"What  will  he  do  ?"  For  everything  was  in  Arthur 
Benham's  weak  hands  now. 

For  a  little  time,  which  seemed  hours  to  all  who  were 
there,  the  lad  sat  still,  hiding  his  face,  but  suddenly  he 

3°7 


JASON 

sprang  to  his  feet,  and  once  more  stood  staring  into  Ste. 
Marie's  quiet  eyes.  "How  do  I  know  you're  telling  the 
truth  ?"  he  cried,  and  his  voice  ran  up  high  and  shrill  and 
wavered  and  broke.  "How  do  I  know  that?  You'd  tell 
just  as  smooth  a  story  if — if  you  were  lying — if  you'd  been 
sent  here  to  get  me  back  to — to  what  old  Charlie  said  they 
wanted  me  for." 

"You  have  only  to  go  back  to  them  and  make  sure,"  said 
Ste.  Marie.  "They  can't  harm  you  or  take  anything  from 
you.  If  they  persuaded  you  to  sign  anything — which  they 
will  not  do — it  would  be  valueless  to  them,  because  you're  a 
minor.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  Go  and  make 
sure.  Or  wait!  Wait!"  He  gave  a  little  sharp  laugh  of 
excitement.  "Is  Captain  Stewart  in  the  house?"  he  de 
manded.  "Call  him  out  here.  That's  better  still.  Bring 
your  uncle  here  to  face  me  without  telling  him  what  it's 
for,  without  giving  him  time  to  make  up  a  story.  Then 
we  shall  see.  Send  for  him." 

"He's  not  here,"  said  the  boy  "He  went  away  an  hour 
ago.  I  don't  know  whether  he'll  be  back  to-night  or  not." 
Young  Arthur  stared  at  the  elder  man,  breathing  hard. 
"Good  God!"  he  said,  in  a  whisper,  "if — old  Charlie  is 
rotten,  who  in  this  world  isn't  ?  I — don't  know  what  to 
believe."  Abruptly  he  turned  with  a  sort  of  snarl  upon 
Coira  O'Hara.  "Have  you  been  in  this  game,  too?"  he 
cried  out.  "I  suppose  you  and  your  precious  father  and 
old  Charlie  cooked  it  up  together.  What  ?  You've  been 
having  a  fine,  low-comedy  time  laughing  yourselves  to  death 
at  me,  haven't  you  ?  Oh,  Lord,  what  a  gang!" 

Ste.  Marie  caught  the  boy  by  the  shoulder  and  spun  him 
round.  "That  will  do!"  he  said,  sternly.  "You  have  been 
a  fool;  don't  make  it  worse  by  being  a  coward  and  a  cad. 

308 


JASON 

Mile.  O'Hara  knew  no  more  of  the  truth  than  you  knew. 
Your  uncle  lied  to  you  all."  But  the  girl  came  and  touched 
his  arm. 

She  said:  "Don't  be  hard  with  him.  He  is  bewildered 
and  nervous,  and  he  doesn't  know  what  he  is  saying.  Think 
how  sudden  it  has  been  for  him.  Don't  be  hard  with  him, 
M.  Ste.  Marie." 

Ste.  Marie  dropped  his  hand,  and  the  lad  backed  a  few 
steps  away.  His  face  was  crimson.  After  a  moment  he 
said:  "I'm  sorry,  Coira.  I  didn't  mean  that.  I  didn't 
mean  it.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I'm  about  half  dippy,  I 
guess.  I — don't  know  what  to  believe  or  what  to  think  or 
what  to  do."  He  remained  staring  at  her  a  little  while  in 
silence,  and  presently  his  eyes  sharpened.  He  cried  out: 
"If  I  should  go  back  there — mind  you,  I  say  'if — d'you 
know  what  they'd  do  ?  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  They'd  begin 
to  talk  at  me  one  at  a  time.  They'd  get  me  in  a  corner 
and  cry  over  me,  and  say  I  was  young  and  didn't  know  my 
mind,  and  that  I  owed  them  something  for  all  that's  hap 
pened,  and  not  to  bring  their  gray  hairs  in  sorrow  to  the  grave 
— and  the  long  and  short  of  it  would  be  that  they'd  make 
me  give  you  up."  He  wheeled  upon  Ste.  Marie.  "That's 
what  they'd  do!"  he  said,  and  his  voice  began  to  rise  again 
shrilly.  "They're  three  to  one,  and  they  know  they  can 
talk  me  into  anything.  You  know  it,  too!"  He  shook  his 
head.  "I  won't  go  back!"  he  cried,  wildly.  "That's  what 
will  happen  if  I  do.  I  don't  want  granddad's  money.  He 
can  give  it  to  old  Charlie  or  to  a  gendarme  if  he  wants  to. 
I'm  going  to  have  enough  of  my  own.  I  won't  go  back, 
and  that's  all  there  is  of  it.  You  may  be  telling  the  truth 
or  you  may  not,  but  I  won't  go." 

Ste.  Marie  started  to  speak,  but  the  girl  checked  him. 

3°9 


JASON 

She  moved  closer  to  where  Arthur  Benham  stood,  and  she 
said:  "If  your  love  for  me,  Arthur,  is  worth  having,  it  is 
worth  fighting  for.  If  it  is  so  weak  that  your  family  can 
persuade  you  out  of  it,  then — I  don't  want  it  at  all,  for  it 
would  never  last.  Arthur,  you  must  go  back  to  them.  I 
want  you  to  go." 

"I  won't !"  the  boy  cried.  "I  won't  go!  I  tell  you  they 
could  talk  me  out  of  anything.  You  don't  know  'em.  I 
do.  I  can't  stand  against  them.  I  won't  go,  and  that  set 
tles  it.  Besides,  I'm  not  so  sure  that  this  fellow's  telling  the 
truth.  I've  known  old  Charlie  a  lot  longer  than  I  have  him." 

Coira  O'Hara  turned  a  despairing  face  over  her  shoulder 
toward  Ste.  Marie.  "Leave  me  alone  with  him,"  she 
begged.  "Perhaps  I  can  win  him  over.  Leave  us  alone 
for  a  little  while." 

Ste.  Marie  hesitated,  and  in  the  end  went  away  and  left 
the  two  together.  He  went  farther  down  the  park  to  the 
rond  point,  and  crossed  it  to  the  familiar  stone  bench  at 
the  west  side.  He  sat  down  there  to  wait.  He  was  anx 
ious  and  alarmed  over  this  new  obstacle,  for  he  had  the  wit 
to  see  that  it  was  a  very  important  one.  It  was  quite  con 
ceivable  that  the  boy,  but  half-convinced,  half-yielding  be 
fore,  would  balk  altogether  when  he  realized,  as  evidently 
he  did  realize,  what  returning  home  might  mean  to  him — 
the  loss  of  the  girl  he  hoped  to  marry. 

Ste.  Marie  was  sufficiently  wise  in  worldly  matters  to 
know  that  the  boy's  fear  was  not  unfounded.  He  could  im 
agine  the  family  in  the  rue  de  1'Universite  taking  exactly  the 
view  young  Arthur  said  they  would  take  toward  an  alliance 
with  the  daughter  of  a  notorious  Irish  adventurer.  Ste. 
Marie's  cheeks  burned  hotly  with  anger  when  the  words  said 
themselves  in  his  brain,  but  he  knew  that  there  could  be  no 

310 


JASON 

doubt  of  the  Benhams'  and  even  of  old  David  Stewart's 
view  of  the  affair.  They  would  oppose  the  marriage  with 
all  their  strength. 

He  tried  to  imagine  what  weight  such  considerations 
would  have  with  him  if  it  were  he  who  was  to  marry  Coira 
O'Hara,  and  he  laughed  aloud  with  scorn  of  them  and  with 
great  pride  in  her.  But  the  lad  yonder  was  very  young — 
too  young;  his  family  would  be  right  to  that  extent.  Would 
he  be  able  to  stand  against  them  ? 

Ste.  Marie  shook  his  head  with  a  sigh  and  gave  over  un 
profitable  wonderings,  for  he  was  still  within  the  walls  of  La 
Lierre,  and  so  was  Arthur  Benham.  And  the  walls  were 
high  and  strong.  He  fell  to  thinking  of  the  attempt  at 
rescue  which  was  to  be  made  that  night,  and  he  began  to 
form  plans  and  think  of  necessary  preparations.  To  be 
sure,  Coira  might  persuade  the  boy  to  escape  during  the 
day,  and  then  the  night  attack  would  be  unnecessary,  but  in 
case  of  her  failure  it  must  be  prepared  for.  He  rose  to  his 
feet  and  began  to  walk  back  and  forth  under  the  rows  of 
chestnut-trees,  where  the  earth  was  firm  and  black  and 
mossy  and  there  was  no  growth  of  shrubbery.  He  thought? 
of  that  hasty  interview  with  Richard  Hartley  and  he  laughed 
a  little.  It  had  been  rather  like  an  exchange  of  telegrams — 
reduced  to  the  bare  bones  of  necessary  question  and  answer. 
There  had  been  no  time  for  conversation. 

His  eyes  caught  a  far-off  glimpse  of  woman's  garments, 
and  he  saw  that  Coira  O'Hara  and  Arthur  Benham  were 
walking  toward  the  house.  So  he  went  a  little  way  after 
them,  and  waited  at  a  point  where  he  could  see  any  one  re 
turning.  He  had  not  long  to  wait,  for  it  seemed  that  the  girl 
went  only  as  far  as  the  door  with  her  fiance  and  then  turned 
back. 

311 


JASON 

Ste.  Marie  met  her  with  raised  eyebrows,  and  she  shook 
her  head.  "  I  don't  know,"  said  she.  "  He  is  very  stubborn. 
He  is  frightened  and  bewildered.  As  he  said  awhile  ago, 
he  doesn't  know  what  to  think  or  what  to  believe.  You 
mustn't  blame  him.  Remember  how  he  trusted  his  uncle! 
He's  going  to  think  it  over,  and  I  shall  see  him  again  this 
afternoon.  Perhaps,  when  he  has  had  time  to  reflect — I 
don't  know.  I  truly  don't  know." 

"He  won't  go  to  your  father  and  make  a  scene  ?"  said  Ste. 
Marie,  and  the  girl  shook  her  head. 

"I  made  him  promise  not  to.  Oh,  Bayard,"  she  cried — 
and  in  his  abstraction  he  did  not  notice  the  name  she  gave 
him — "I  am  afraid  myself!  I  am  horribly  afraid  about  my 
father." 

"I  am  sure  he  did  not  know,"  said  the  man.  "Stewart 
lied  to  him." 

But  Coira  O'Hara  shook  her  head,  saying:  "I  didn't  mean 
that.  I'm  afraid  of  what  will  happen  when  he  finds  out 
how  he  has  been — how  we  have  been  played  upon,  tricked, 
deceived — what  a  light  we  have  been  placed  in.  You  don't 
know,  you  can't  even  imagine,  how  he  has  set  his  heart  on 
— what  he  wished  to  occur.  I  am  afraid  he  will  do  some 
thing  terrible  when  he  knows.  I  am  afraid  he  will  kill  Cap 
tain  Stewart." 

"Which,"  observed  Ste.  Marie,  "would  be  an  excellent 
solution  of  the  problem.  But  of  course  we  mustn't  let  it 
happen.  What  can  be  done  ?" 

"We  mustn't  let  him  know  the  truth,"  said  the  girl, 
"until  Arthur  is  gone  and  until  Captain  Stewart  is  gone,  too. 
He  is  terrible  when  he's  angry.  We  must  keep  the  truth 
from  him  until  he  can  do  no  harm.  It  will  be  bad  enough 
even  then,  for  I  think  it  will  break  his  heart." 

312 


JASON 

Ste.  Marie  remembered  that  there  was  something  she 
did  not  know,  and  he  told  her  about  his  interview 
with  Richard  Hartley  and  about  their  arrangement  for 
the  rescue  —  if  it  should  be  necessary  —  on  that  very 
night. 

She  nodded  her  head  over  it,  but  for  a  long  time  after  he 
had  finished  she  did  not  speak.  Then  she  said:  "I  am 
glad,  I  suppose.  Yes,  since  it  has  to  be  done,  I  suppose  I 
am  glad  that  it  is  to  come  at  once."  She  looked  up  at  Ste. 
Marie  with  shadowy,  inscrutable  eyes.  "  And  so,  Monsieur," 
said  she,  "it  is  at  an  end — all  this."  She  made  a  little 
gesture  which  seemed  to  sweep  the  park  and  gardens.  "So 
we  go  out  of  each  other's  lives  as  abruptly  as  we  entered 
them.  Well — "  She  had  continued  to  look  at  him,  but 
she  saw  the  man's  face  turn  white,  and  she  saw  something 
come  into  his  eyes  which  was  like  intolerable  pain;  then 
she  looked  away. 

Ste.  Marie  said  her  name  twice,  under  his  breath,  in  a 
sort  of  soundless  cry,  but  he  said  no  more,  and  after  a  mo 
ment  she  went  on: 

"Even  so,  I  am  glad  that  at  last  we  know  each  other — 
for  what  we  are.  ...  I  should  have  been  sorry  to  go  on 
thinking  you  .  .  .  what  I  thought  before.  .  .  .  And  I  could 
not  have  borne  it,  I'm  afraid,  to  have  you  think  .  .  .  what 
you  thought  of  me.  .  .  when  I  came  to  know.  .  .  .  I'm  glad 
we  understand  at  last." 

Ste.  Marie  tried  to  speak,  but  no  words  would  come  to 
him.  He  was  like  a  man  defeated  and  crushed,  not  one  on 
the  high-road  to  victory.  But  it  may  have  been  that  the 
look  of  him  was  more  eloquent  than  anything  he  could  have 
said.  And  it  may  have  been  that  the  girl  saw  and  under 
stood. 

3*3 


JASON 

So  the  two  remained  there  for  a  little  while  longer  in 
silence,  but  at  last  Coira  O'Hara  said: 

"I  must  go  back  to  the  house  now.  There  is  nothing 
more  to  be  done,  I  suppose — nothing  left  now  but  to  wait 
for  night  to  come.  I  shall  see  Arthur  this  afternoon  and 
make  one  last  appeal  to  him.  If  that  fails  you  must  carry 
him  off.  Do  you  know  where  he  sleeps  ?  It  is  the  room 
corresponding  to  yours  on  the  other  side  of  the  house — just 
across  that  wide  landing  at  the  top  of  the  stairs.  I  will 
manage  that  the  front  door  below  shall  be  left  unlocked. 
The  rest  you  and  your  friends  must  do.  If  I  can  make 
any  impression  upon  Arthur  I'll  slip  a  note  under  your  door 
this  afternoon  or  this  evening.  Perhaps,  even  if  he  decides 
to  go,  it  would  be  best  for  him  to  wait  until  night  and  go 
with  the  rest  of  you.  In  any  case,  I'll  let  you  know." 

She  spoke  rapidly,  as  if  she  were  in  great  haste  to  be 
gone,  and  with  averted  eyes.  And  at  the  end  she  turned 
away  without  any  word  of  farewell,  but  Ste.  Marie  started 
after  her.  He  cried: 

"Coira!  Coira!"  And  when  she  stopped,  he  said: 
"Coira,  I  can't  let  you  go  like  this!  Are  we  to — simply  to 
go  our  different  ways  like  this,  as  if  we'd  never  met  at  all  ?" 

"What  else  ?"  said  the  girl. 

And  there  was  no  answer  to  that.  Their  separate  ways 
were  determined  for  them — marked  plain  to  see. 

"But  afterward!"  he  cried.  "Afterward — after  we  have 
got  the  boy  back  to  his  home!  What  then  ?" 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  "he  will  return  to  me."  She  spoke 
without  any  show  of  feeling.  "Perhaps  he  will  return. 
If  not — well,  I  don't  know.  I  expect  my  father  and  I  will 
just  go  on  as  we've  always  gone.  We're  used  to  it,  you 
know." 

3H 


JASON 

After  that  she  nodded  to  him  and  once  more  turned 
away.  Her  face  may  have  been  a  very  little  pale,  but,  as 
before,  it  betrayed  no  feeling  of  any  sort.  So  she  went  up 
under  the  trees  to  the  house,  and  Ste.  Marie  watched  her 
with  strained  and  burning  eyes. 

When,  half  an  hour  later,  he  followed,  he  came  unex 
pectedly  upon  the  old  Michel,  who  had  entered  the  park 
through  the  little  wooden  door  in  the  wall,  and  was  on  his 
way  round  to  the  kitchen  with  sundry  parcels  of  supplies. 
He  spoke  a  civil  "Bon  jour,  Monsieur,"  and  Ste.  Marie 
stopped  him.  They  were  out  of  sight  from  the  windows. 
Ste.  Marie  withdrew  from  his  pocket  one  of  the  hundred- 
franc  notes,  and  the  single,  beadlike  eye  of  the  ancient 
gnome  fixed  upon  it  and  seemed  to  shiver  with  a  fascinated 
delight. 

"A  hundred  francs!"  said  Ste.  Marie,  unnecessarily,  and 
the  old  man  licked  his  withered  lips.  The  tempter  said: 
"My  good  Michel,  would  you  care  to  receive  this  trifling 
sum — a  hundred  francs  ?" 

The  gnome  made  a  choked,  croaking  sound  in  his  tltroat. 

"It  is  yours,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  "for  a  small  service — for 
doing  nothing  at  all." 

The  beadlike  eye  rose  to  his  and  sharpened  intelligently. 

"I  desire  only,"  said  he,  "that  you  should  sleep  well  to 
night,  very  well — without  waking." 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  old  man,  "I  do  not  sleep  at  all. 
I  watch.  I  watch  Monsieur's  windows.  Monsieur  O'Hara 
watches  until  midnight,  and  I  watch  from  then  until  day." 

"Oh,  I  know  that,"  said  the  other.  "I've  seen  you 
more  than  once  in  the  moonlight,  but  to-night,  mon  vieux, 
slumber  will  overcome  you.  Exhaustion  will  have  its  way 
and  you  will  sleep.  You  will  sleep  like  the  dead." 


JASON 

"I  dare  not!"  cried  the  gardener.  "Monsieur,  I  dare 
not!  The  old  one  would  kill  me.  You  do  not  know  him. 
He  would  cut  me  into  pieces  and  burn  the  pieces.  Mon 
sieur,  it  is  impossible." 

Ste.  Marie  withdrew  the  other  hundred-franc  note  and 
held  the  two  together  in  his  hand.  Once  more  the  gnome 
made  his  strange,  croaking  sound  and  the  withered  face 
twisted  with  anguish. 

"Monsieur!     Monsieur!"  he  groaned. 

"I  have  an  idea,"  said  the  tempter.  "A  little  earth 
rubbed  upon  one  side  of  the  head — perhaps  a  trifling 
scratch  to  show  a  few  drops  of  blood.  You  have  been 
assaulted,  beaten  down,  despite  a  heroic  resistance,  and 
left  for  dead.  An  hour  afterward  you  stagger  into  the 
house  a  frightful  object.  Hein  ?" 

The  withered  face  of  the  old  man  expanded  slowly  into 
a  senile  grin. 

"Monsieur,"  said  he,  with  admiration  in  his  tone,  "it 
is  magnificent.  It  shall  be  done.  I  sleep  like  the  good 
dead— under  the  trees,  not  too  near  the  lilacs,  eh  ?  Bien, 
Monsieur,  it  is  done!" 

Into  his  trembling  claw  he  took  the  notes;  he  made  an 
odd  bow  and  shambled  away  about  his  business. 

Ste.  Marie  laughed  and  went  on  into  the  house.  He 
counted,  and  there  were  fourteen  hours  to  wait.  Fourteen 
hours,  and  at  the  end  of  them — what  ?  His  blood  began 
to  warm  to  the  night's  work. 


XXVII 

THE  NIGHT'S  WORK 

1~^HE  fourteen  long  hours  dragged  themselves  by.  They 
seemed  interminable,  but  somehow  they  passed  and 
the  appointed  time  drew  near.  Ste.  Marie  spent  the  greater 
part  of  the  afternoon  reading,  but  twice  he  lay  down  upon 
the  bed  and  tried  to  sleep,  and  once  he  actually  dozed  off 
for  a  brief  space.  The  old  Michel  brought  his  meals.  He 
had  thought  it  possible  that  Coira  might  manage  to  bring 
the  dinner-tray,  as  she  had  already  done  on  several  oc 
casions,  and  so  make  an  opportunity  for  informing  him  as 
to  young  Arthur's  state  of  mind.  But  she  did  not  come,  and 
no  word  came  from  her.  So  evening  drew  on  and  the  dusk 
gathered  and  deepened  to  darkness. 

Ste.  Marie  walked  his  floor  and  prayed  for  the  hours  to 
pass.  He  had  candles  and  matches,  and  there  was  even  a 
lamp  in  the  room,  so  that  he  could  have  read  if  he  chose, 
but  he  knew  that  the  words  would  have  been  meaningless  to 
him,  that  he  was  incapable  of  abstracting  his  thought  from 
the  night's  stern  work.  He  began  to  be  anxious  over  not 
having  heard  from  Mile.  O'Hara.  She  had  said  that  she 
would  talk  with  Arthur  Benham  during  the  afternoon,  and 
then  slip  a  note  under  Ste.  Marie's  door.  Yet  no  word  had 
come  from  her,  and  to  the  man  pacing  his  floor  in  the  dark 
ness  the  fact  took  on  proportions  tremendous  and  fantastic. 

317 


JASON 

Something  had  happened.  The  boy  had  broken  his  promise, 
burst  out  upon  O'Hara,  or  more  probably  upon  his  uncle, 
and  the  house  was  by  the  ears.  Coira  was  watched — even 
locked  in  her  room.  Stewart  had  fled.  A  score  of  such 
terrible  possibilities  rushed  through  Ste.  Marie's  brain  and 
tortured  him.  He  was  in  a  state  of  nervous  tension  that  was 
almost  unendurable,  and  the  little  noises  of  the  night  out 
side,  a  wind-stirred  rustle  of  leaves,  a  bird's  flutter  among 
the  branches,  the  sound  of  a  cracking  twig,  made  him  start 
violently  and  catch  his  breath. 

Then  at  his  utmost  need  came  reassurance  and  some 
thing  like  ease  of  mind.  He  heard  a  sound  of  voices  at  the 
front  of  the  house,  and  sprang  to  his  balconied  window  to 
listen.  Captain  Stewart  and  O'Hara  were  walking  upon 
the  brick-paved  terrace  and  chatting  calmly  over  their 
cigars.  The  man  above,  prone  upon  the  floor,  his  head 
pressed  against  the  ivy-masked  grille  of  the  balcony,  lis 
tened,  and  though  he  could  hear  their  words  only  at  in 
tervals  when  they  passed  beneath  him  he  knew  that  they 
spoke  of  trivial  matters  in  voices  free  of  strain  or  concern. 

He  drew  back  with  a  breath  of  relief,  and  at  that  moment 
a  sound  across  the  room  arrested  him,  a  soft  scraping  sound 
such  as  a  mouse  might  make.  He  went  where  it  was,  and 
a  little  square  of  paper  gleamed  white  through  the  darkness 
just  within  the  door.  Ste.  Marie  caught  it  up  and  took  it 
to  the  far  side  of  the  room  away  from  the  window.  He 
struck  a  match,  opened  the  folded  paper,  and  a  single  line 
of  writing  was  there: 

"He  will  go  with  you.     Wait  by  the  door  in  the  wall." 

The  man  nearly  cried  out  with  joy. 

He    struck    another   match    and   looked    at    his   watch. 


JASON 

It  was  a  quarter  to  ten.  Four  hours  left  out  of  the  four 
teen. 

Once  more  he  lay  down  upon  the  bed  and  closed  his  eyes. 
He  knew  that  he  could  not  sleep,  but  he  was  tired  from  long 
tramping  up  and  down  the  room  and  from  the  strain  of 
over-tried  nerves.  From  hour  to  hour  he  looked  at  his 
watch  by  match-light,  but  he  did  not  leave  the  bed  until  half- 
past  one.  Then  he  rose  and  took  a  long  breath,  and  the 
time  was  at  hand. 

He  stood  a  little  while  gazing  out  into  the  night.  An  old 
moon  was  high  overhead  in  a  cloudless  sky,  and  that  would 
make  the  night's  work  both  easier  and  more  difficult,  but  on 
the  whole  he  was  glad  of  it.  He  looked  to  the  east,  toward 
that  wall  where  was  the  little  wooden  door,  and  the  way 
was  under  cover  of  trees  and  shrubbery  for  the  whole 
distance  save  a  little  space  beside  the  house.  He  listened, 
and  the  night  was  very  still — no  sound  from  the  house  be 
low  him,  no  sound  anywhere  save  the  barking  of  a  dog  from 
far  away,  and  after  an  instant  the  whistle  of  a  distant  train. 

Ste.  Marie  turned  back  into  the  room  and  pulled  the 
sheets  from  his  bed.  He  rolled  them,  corner-wise,  into  a 
sort  of  rope,  and  knotted  them  together  securely.  Then  he 
went  to  one  of  the  east  windows.  There  was  no  balcony 
there,  but,  as  in  all  French  upper  windows,  a  wood  andiron 
bar  fixed  into  the  stone  casing  at  both  ends,  with  a  little 
grille  below  it.  It  crossed  the  window  space  a  third  of  the 
distance  from  bottom  to  top.  He  bent  one  end  of  the 
improvised  rope  to  this,  made  it  fast,  and  let  the  other  end 
hang  out.  The  east  side  of  the  house  was  in  shadow,  and 
the  rolled  sheet,  a  vague  white  line,  disappeared  into  the 
darkness  below,  but  Ste.  Marie  knew  that  it  must  reach 
nearly  to  the  ground.  He  had  made  use  of  it  because  he 

3'9 


JASON 

was  afraid  there  would  be  too  much  noise  if  he  tried  to 
climb  down  the  ivy.  The  room  directly  underneath  was 
the  drawing-room,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  closed  and 
shuttered  and  unoccupied  both  by  day  and  by  night.  The 
only  danger,  he  decided,  was  from  the  sleeping-room  be 
hind  his  own,  with  its  windows  opening  close  by;  but,  though 
he  did  not  know  it,  he  was  safe  there  also,  for  the  room 
was  Coira  O'Hara's. 

He  felt  in  his  pocket  for  the  pistol,  and  it  was  ready  to 
hand.  Then  he  buttoned  his  coat  round  him  and  swung 
himself  out  of  the  window.  He  held  his  body  away  from 
the  wall  with  one  knee  and  went  down  hand  under  hand. 
It  was  so  quietly  done  that  it  did  not  even  rouse  the  birds  in 
the  near-by  trees.  Before  he  realized  that  he  had  come  to 
the  lower  windows  his  feet  touched  the  earth  and  he  was 
free. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  where  he  was,  and  then  slipped 
rapidly  across  the  open,  moonlit  space  into  the  inky  gloom 
of  the  trees.  He  made  a  half-circle  round  before  the  house 
and  looked  up  at  it.  It  lay  gray  and  black  and  still  in  the 
night.  Where  the  moonlight  was  upon  it,  it  was  gray; 
where  there  was  shadow,  black  as  black  velvet,  and  the 
windows  were  like  open,  dead  eyes.  He  looked  toward 
Arthur  Benham's  room,  and  there  was  no  light,  but  he  knew 
that  the  boy  was  awake  and  waiting  there,  shivering  prob 
ably  in  the  dark.  He  wondered  where  Coira  O'Hara  was, 
and  he  pictured  her  lying  in  her  bed  fronting  the  gloom 
with  sleepless,  open  eyes,  looking  into  those  to-morrows 
which  she  had  said  she  saw  so  well.  He  wondered  bitterly 
what  the  to-morrows  were  to  bring  her,  but  he  caught  him 
self  up  with  a  stern  determination  and  put  her  out  of  his 
mind.  He  did  not  dare  think  of  her  in  that  hour. 

320 


JASON 

He  turned  and  began  to  make  his  way  silently  under 
the  trees  toward  the  appointed  meeting-place.  Once  he 
thought  of  the  old  Michel  and  wondered  where  that  gnarled 
and  withered  watch  -  dog  had  betaken  himself.  Some 
where,  within  or  without  the  house,  he  was  asleep  or  pre 
tending  to  sleep,  and  Ste.  Marie  knew  that  he  could  be 
trusted.  The  man's  cupidity  and  his  hatred  of  Captain 
Stewart  together  would  make  him  faithful,  or  faithless,  as 
one  chose  to  look  upon  it. 

He  came  to  that  place  where  a  row  of  lilac  shrubs  stood 
against  the  wall  and  a  half-dead  cedar  stretched  gnarled 
branches  above.  He  was  a  little  before  his  time,  and  he 
settled  himself  to  listen  and  wait,  his  sharp  ears  keenly  on 
the  alert,  his  eyes  turned  toward  the  dark  and  quiet  house. 

The  little  noises  of  the  night  broke  upon  him  with  ex 
aggerated  clamor.  A  crackling  twig  was  a  thunderous 
crash,  a  bird's  sleepy  stir  was  the  sound  of  pursuit  and 
disaster.  A  hundred  times  he  heard  the  cautious  approach 
of  Richard  Hartley's  motor-car  without  the  wall,  and  he 
fell  into  a  panic  of  fear  lest  that  machine  prove  unruly, 
break  down,  puncture  a  tire,  or  burst  into  a  series  of  ear- 
splitting  explosions.  But  at  last — it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  had  waited  untold  hours  and  that  the  dawn  must  be 
nigh — there  came  an  unmistakable  rustling  from  overhead 
and  the  sound  of  a  hard-drawn  breath.  The  top  of  the 
wall,  just  at  that  point,  was  in  moonlight,  and  a  man's 
head  appeared  over  it,  then  an  arm  and  then  a  leg.  Hart 
ley  called  down  to  him  in  a  whisper,  and  Ste.  Marie,  from 
the  gloom  beneath,  whispered  a  reply.  He  said: 

"The  boy  has  promised  to  come  with  us.  We  sha'n't 
have  to  fight  for  it." 

Richard  Hartley  said,  "Thank  God!"  He  spoke  to 
321 


JASON 

some  one  outside,  and  then  turning  about  let  himself  down 
to  arm's-length  and  dropped  to  the  ground.  "Thank  God!" 
he  said  again.  "The  two  men  who  were  to  have  come  with 
me  didn't  show  up.  I  waited  as  long  as  I  dared,  and  then 
came  on  with  only  the  chauffeur.  He's  waiting  outside  by 
the  car  ready  to  crank  up  when  I  give  the  word.  The 
car's  just  a  few  yards  away,  headed  out  for  the  road.  How 
are  we  to  get  back  over  the  wall  ?" 

Ste.  Marie  explained  that  Arthur  Benham  was  to  come 
out  to  join  them  at  the  wooden  door,  and  doubtless  would 
bring  a  key.  If  not,  the  three  of  them  could  scale  fifteen 
feet  easily  enough  in  the  way  soldiers  and  firemen  are 
trained  to  do  it.  He  told  his  friend  all  that  was  necessary 
for  the  time,  and  they  went  together  along  the  wall  to  the 
more  open  space  beside  the  little  door. 

They  waited  there  in  silence  for  five  minutes,  and  once 
Hartley,  with  his  back  toward  the  house,  struck  a  match 
under  his  sheltering  coat,  looked  to  see  what  time  it  was, 
and  found  it  was  three  minutes  past  two. 

"He  ought  to  be  here,"  the  man  growled.  "I  don't  like 
waiting.  Good  Lord,  you  don't  think  he's  funked  it,  do 
you  ?  Eh  ?" 

Ste.  Marie  did  not  answer,  but  he  was  breathing  very 
fast  and  he  could  not  keep  his  hands  still. 

The  dog  which  he  had  heard  from  his  window  began 
barking  again  very  far  away  in  the  night,  and  kept  it  up 
incessantly.  Perhaps  he  was  barking  at  the  moon. 

"I'm  going  a  little  way  toward  the  house,"  said  Ste. 
Marie,  at  last.  "We  can't  see  the  terrace  from  here." 

But  before  he  had  started  they  heard  the  sound  of  hurry 
ing  feet,  and  Richard  Hartley  began  to  curse  under  his 
breath.  He  said: 

322 


THE    GIRL    FUMBLED    DESPERATELY   WITH    THE    CLUMSY   KEY 


JASON 

"Does  the  young  idiot  want  to  rouse  the  whole  place? 
Why  can't  he  come  quietly?" 

Ste.  Marie  began  to  run  forward,  slipping  the  pistol  out 
of  his  pocket  and  holding  it  ready  in  his  hand,  for  his 
quick  ears  told  him  that  there  was  more  than  one  pair  of 
feet  coming  through  the  night.  He  went  to  where  he  could 
command  the  approach  from  the  house  and  halted  there, 
but  all  at  once  he  gave  a  low  cry  and  started  forward  again, 
for  he  saw  that  Arthur  Benham  and  Coira  O'Hara  were 
running  together,  and  that  they  were  in  desperate  haste. 
He  called  out  to  them,  and  the  girl  cried: 

"Go  to  the  door  in  the  wall!  The  door  in  the  wall!  Oh, 
be  quick!" 

He  fell  into  step  beside  her,  and  as  they  ran  he  said*. 

"You're  going  with  him?     You're  coming  with  us?" 

The  girl  answered  him,  "No,  no!"  and  she  sprang  to 
the  little,  low  door  and  began  to  fit  the  iron  key  into  the 
lock. 

The  three  men  stood  about  her,  and  young  Arthur  Ben- 
ham  drew  his  breath  in  great,  shivering  gasps  that  were 
like  sobs. 

"They  heard  us!"  he  cried,  in  a  whisper.  "They're 
after  us.  They  heard  us  on  the  stairs.  I — stumbled  and 
fell.  For  God's  sake,  Coira,  be  quick!" 

The  girl  fumbled  desperately  with  the  clumsy  key,  and 
dropped  upon  her  knees  to  see  the  better.  Once  she  said, 
in  a  whisper:  "I  can't  turn  it.  It  won't  turn."  And  at  that 
Richard  Hartley  pushed  her  out  of  the  way  and  lent  his 
greater  strength  to  the  task. 

A  sudden,  loud  cry  came  from  the  house,  a  hoarse, 
screeching  cry  in  a  voice  which  might  have  been  either 
man's  or  woman's,  but  was  as  mad  and  as  desperate  and 

323 


JASON 

as  horrible  in  that  still  night  as  the  screech  of  a  tortured 
animal — or  of  a  maniac.  It  came  again  and  again,  and  it 
was  nearer. 

"Oh,  hurry,  hurry!"  said  the  girl.  "Can't  you  be 
quick?  They're  coming." 

And  as  she  spoke  the  little  group  about  the  wall  heard 
the  engine  of  the  motor-car  outside  start  up  with  a  staccato 
roar  and  knew  that  the  faithful  chauffeur  was  ready  for  them. 

"I'm  getting  it,  I  think,"  said  Richard  Hartley,  between 
his  teeth.  "I'm  getting  it.  Turn,  you  beast!  Turn!" 

There  was  a  sound  of  hurrying  feet,  and  Ste.  Marie 
spun  about.  He  cried: 

"Don't  wait  for  me!  Jump  into  the  car  and  go!  Don't 
wait  anywhere!  Come  back  after  you've  left  Benham  at 
home!" 

He  began  to  run  forward  toward  those  running  feet,  and 
he  did  not  know  that  the  girl  followed  after  him.  A  short 
distance  away  there  was  a  little  open  space  of  moonlight, 
and  in  its  midst,  at  full  career,  he  met  the  Irishman  O'Hara, 
a  gaunt  and  grotesque  figure  in  his  sleeping-suit,  bare 
footed,  with  empty  hands.  Beyond  him  still,  some  one  else 
ran,  stumbling,  and  sobbed  and  uttered  mad  cries. 

Ste.  Marie  dropped  his  pistol  to  the  ground  and  sprang 
upon  the  Irishman.  He  caught  him  about  the  body  and 
arms,  and  the  two  swayed  and  staggered  under  the  tremen 
dous  impact.  At  just  that  moment,  from  behind,  came  the 
crash  of  the  opened  door  and  triumphant  shouts.  Ste. 
Marie  gave  a  little  gasp  of  triumph,  too,  and  clung  the 
harder  to  the  man  with  whom  he  fought.  He  drove  his 
head  into  the  Irishman's  shoulder,  and  set  his  muscles 
with  a  grip  which  was  like  iron.  He  knew  that  it  could 
not  endure  long,  for  the  Irishman  was  stronger  than  he, 


JASON 

but  the  grip  of  a  nervous  man  who  is  keyed  up  to  a  high 
tension  is  incredibly  powerful  for  a  little  while.  Trained 
strength  is  nothing  beside  it. 

It  seemed  to  Ste.  Marie  in  this  desperate  moment — it 
cannot  have  been  more  than  a  minute  or  two  at  the  most — 
that  a  strange  and  uncanny  miracle  befell  him.  It  was  as 
if  he  became  two.  Soul  and  body,  spirit  and  straining 
flesh,  seemed  to  him  to  separate,  to  stand  apart,  each  from 
the  other.  There  was  a  thing  of  iron  flesh  and  thews  which 
had  locked  itself  about  an  enemy  and  clung  there  madly 
with  but  one  purpose,  one  single  thought — to  grip  and  grip, 
and  never  loosen  until  flesh  should  be  torn  from  bones. 
But  apart  the  spirit  looked  on  with  a  complete  detachment. 
It  looked  beyond — he  must  have  raised  his  head  to  glance 
over  O'Hara's  shoulder — saw  a  mad  figure  staggering  for 
ward  in  the  moonlight,  and  knew  the  figure  for  Captain 
Stewart.  It  saw  an  upraised  arm  and  was  not  afraid,  for 
the  work  was  almost  done  now.  It  listened  and  was  glad, 
hearing  the  motor-car,  without  the  walls,  leap  forward  into 
the  night  and  its  puffing  grow  fainter  and  fainter  with  dis 
tance.  It  knew  that  the  thing  of  strained  sinews  received 
a  crashing  blow  upon  backflung  head,  and  that  the  iron 
muscles  were  slipping  away  from  their  grip,  but  it  was  still 
glad,  for  the  work  was  done. 

Only  at  the  last,  before  red  and  whirling  lights  had  ob 
scured  the  view,  before  consciousness  was  dissolved  in  un 
consciousness,  came  horror  and  agony,  for  the  eyes  saw 
Captain  Stewart  back  away  and  raise  the  thing  he  had 
struck  with,  a  large  revolver,  saw  Coira  O'Hara,  a  swift 
and  flashing  figure  in  the  moonlight,  throw  herself  upon  him 
before  he  could  fire,  heard  together  a  woman's  scream  and 
the  roar  of  the  pistol's  explosion,  and  then  knew  no  more. 

325 


XXVIII 

MEDEA'S  LITTLE  HOUR 

WHEN  Coira  O'Hara  came  to  herself  from  the  mo 
ment's  swoon  into  which  she  had  fallen,  she  rose  to 
her  knees  and  stared  wildly  about  her.  She  seemed  to  be 
alone  in  the  place,  and  her  first  thought  was  to  wonder  how 
long  she  had  lain  there.  Captain  Stewart  had  disappeared. 
She  remembered  her  struggle  with  him  to  prevent  him 
from  firing  at  Ste.  Marie,  and  she  remembered  her  desperate 
agony  when  she  realized  that  she  could  not  hold  him  much 
longer.  She  remembered  the  accidental  discharge  of  the 
revolver  into  the  air;  she  remembered  being  thrown  violent 
ly  to  the  ground — and  that  was  all. 

Where  was  her  father,  and  where  was  Ste.  Marie  ?  The 
first  question  answered  itself,  for  as  she  turned  her  eyes 
toward  the  west  she  saw  O'Hara's  tall,  ungainly  figure 
disappearing  in  the  direction  of  the  house.  She  called  his 
name  twice,  but  it  may  be  that  the  man  did  not  hear,  for 
he  went  on  without  pausing  and  was  lost  to  sight. 

The  girl  became  aware  of  something  which  lay  on  the 
ground  near  her,  half  in  and  half  out  of  the  patch  of  silver 
moonlight.  For  some  moments  she  stared  at  it  uncom 
prehending.  Then  she  gave  a  sharp  scream  and  struggled 
to  her  feet.  She  ran  to  the  thing  which  lay  there  motion 
less  and  fell  upon  her  knees  beside  it.  It  was  Ste.  Marie, 

326 


JASON 

his  face  upturned  to  the  sky,  one  side  of  his  head  black  and 
damp.  Stewart  had  not  shot  him,  but  that  crashing  blow 
with  the  clubbed  revolver  had  struck  him  full  and  fair,  and 
he  was  very  still. 

For  an  instant  the  girl's  strength  went  out  of  her,  and 
she  dropped  lax  across  the  body,  her  face  upon  Ste.  Marie's 
breast.  But  after  that  she  tore  open  coat  and  waistcoat 
and  felt  for  a  heart-beat.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  found 
life,  and  she  began  to  believe  that  the  man  had  only  been 
stunned. 

Once  more  she  rose  to  her  feet  and  looked  about  her. 
There  was  no  one  to  lend  her  aid.  She  bent  over  the  un 
conscious  man  and  slipped  her  arms  about  him.  Though 
Ste.  Marie  was  tall,  he  was  slightly  built,  by  no  means 
heavy,  and  the  girl  was  very  strong.  She  found  that  she 
could  carry  him  a  little  way,  dragging  his  feet  after  her. 
When  she  could  go  no  farther  she  laid  him  down  and 
crouched  over  him,  waiting  until  her  strength  should  re 
turn.  And  this  she  did  for  a  score  of  times;  but  each  time 
the  distance  she  went  was  shorter  and  her  breathing  came 
with  deeper  gasps  and  the  trembling  in  her  limbs  grew 
more  terrible.  At  the  last  she  moved  in  a  sort  of  fever, 
an  evil  dream  of  tortured  body  and  reeling  brain.  But  she 
had  got  Ste.  Marie  up  through  the  park  to  the  terrace  and* 
into  the  house,  and  with  a  last  desperate  effort  she  had 
laid  him  upon  a  couch  in  a  certain  little  room  which  opened 
from  the  lower  hall.  Then  she  fell  down  before  him  and 
lay  still  for  a  long  time. 

When  she  came  to  herself  again  the  man  was  stirring 
feebly  and  muttering  to  himself  under  his  breath.  With 
slow  and  painful  steps  she  got  across  the  room  and  pulled 
the  bell-cord.  She  remained  there  ringing  until  the  old 

327 


JASON 

Justine,  blinking  and  half-dressed,  appeared  with  a  candle 
in  the  doorway.  Coira  told  the  woman  to  make  lights,  and 
then  to  bring  water  and  a  certain  little  bottle  of  aromatic 
salts  which  was  in  her  room  up-stairs.  The  old  Justine 
exclaimed  and  cried  out,  but  the  girl  flew  at  her  in  a  white 
fury,  and  she  tottered  away  as  fast  as  old  legs  could  move 
once  she  had  set  alight  the  row  of  candles  on  the  mantel 
shelf.  Then  Coira  O'Hara  went  back  to  the  man  who  lay 
outstretched  on  the  low  couch,  and  knelt  beside  him,  look 
ing  into  his  face.  The  man  stirred,  and  moved  his  head 
slowly.  Half-articulate  words  came  from  his  lips,  and  she 
made  out  that  he  was  saying  her  name  in  a  dull  monotone — 
only  her  name,  over  and  over  again.  She  gave  a  little  cry 
of  grief  and  gladness,  and  hid  her  face  against  him  as  she 
had  done  once  before,  out  in  the  night. 

The  old  woman  returned  with  a  jug  of  water,  towels, 
and  the  bottle  of  aromatic  salts.  The  two  of  them  washed 
that  stain  from  Ste.  Marie's  head,  and  found  that  he  had 
received  a  severe  bruise  and  that  the  flesh  had  been  cut 
before  and  above  the  ear. 

"Thank  God,"  the  girl  said,  "it  is  only  a  flesh  wound! 
If  it  were  a  fracture  he  would  be  breathing  in  that  hor 
rible,  loud  way  they  always  do.  He's  breathing  naturally. 
He  has  only  been  stunned.  You  may  go  now,"  she 
said.  "Only  bring  a  glass  and  some  drinking-water — 
cold." 

So  the  old  woman  went  away  to  do  her  errand,  returned, 
and  went  away  again,  and  the  two  were  left  together.  Coira 
held  the  salts-bottle  to  Ste.  Marie's  nostrils,  and  he  gasped 
and  sneezed  and  tried  to  turn  his  head  away  from  it,  but 
it  brought  him  to  his  senses — and  doubtless  to  a  good  deal 
of  pain.  Once  when  he  could  not  escape  the  thing  he 

328 


JASON 

broke  into  a  fit  of  weak  cursing,  and  the  girl  laughed  over 
him  tenderly  and  let  him  be. 

Very  slowly  Ste.  Marie  opened  his  eyes,  and  in  the  soft 
half-light  the  girl's  face  was  bent  above  him,  dark  and 
sweet  and  beautiful — near,  so  near  that  her  breath  was 
warm  upon  his  lips.  He  said  her  name  again  in  an  in 
credulous  whisper: 

"Coira!     Coira!" 

And  she  said,  "I  am  here." 

But  the  man  was  in  a  strange  border-land  of  half-con 
sciousness  and  his  ears  were  deaf.  He  said,  gazing  up 
at  her: 

"Is  it — another  dream?" 

And  he  tried  to  raise  one  hand  from  where  it  lay  beside 
him,  but  the  hand  wavered  and  fell  aslant  across  his  body. 
It  had  not  the  strength  yet  to  obey  him.  He  said,  still  in 
his  weak  whisper: 

"Oh,  beautiful — and  sweet — and  true!" 

The  girl  gave  a  little  sob  and  hid  her  face. 

"A  goddess!"  he  whispered.  E"A  queen  among  god 
desses!'  That's — what  the  little  Jew  said.  'A  queen 
among  goddesses.  The  young  Juno  before — '"  He 
stirred  restlessly  where  he  lay,  and  he  complained:  "My 
head  hurts!  What's  the  matter  with  my  head  ?  It  hurts!" 

She  dipped  one  of  the  towels  in  the  basin  of  cold  water 
and  held  it  to  the  man's  brow.  The  chill  of  it  must  have 
been  grateful,  for  his  eyes  closed  and  he  breathed  a  little 
satisfied  "Ah!" 

"It  mustn't  hurt  to-night,"  said  he.  "To-night  at  two 
— by  the  little  door  in  the  garden  wall.  And  he's  coming 
with  us.  The  young  fool  is  coming  with  us.  ...  So  she  and 
I  go  out  of  each  other's  lives.  .  .  .  Coira!"  he  cried,  with  a 

329 


JASON 

sudden  sharpness.  "Coira,  I  won't  have  it!  Am  I  going 
to  lose  you  .  .  .  like  this  ?  Am  I  going  to  lose  you,  after 
all  ...  now  that  we  know  ?" 

He  put  up  his  hand  once  more,  a  weak  and  uncertain 
hand.  It  touched  the  girl's  warm  cheek  and  a  sudden 
violent  shiver  wrung  the  man  on  the  couch.  His  eyes 
sharpened  and  stared  with  something  like  fear. 

"Real!"  he  cried,  whispering.     "  Real  ? . . .  Not  a  dream  ?" 

"Oh,  very  real,  my  Bayard!"  said  she.  A  thought  came 
to  her,  and  she  drew  away  from  the  couch  and  sat  back 
upon  her  heels,  looking  at  the  man  with  grave  and  sombre 
eyes.  In  that  moment  she  fought  within  herself  a  battle  of 
right  and  wrong.  "He  doesn't  remember,"  she  said. 
"He  doesn't  know.  He  is  like  a  little  child.  He  knows 
nothing  but  that  we  two — are  here  together.  Nothing  else. 
Nothing!" 

His  state  was  plain  to  see.  He  dwelt  still  in  that  vague 
border-land  between  worlds.  He  had  brought  with  him  no 
memories,  and  no  memories  followed  him  save  those  her 
face  had  wakened.  Within  the  girl  a  great  and  tender 
passion  of  love  fought  for  possession  of  this  little  hour. 

"It  will  be  all  I  shall  ever  have!"  she  cried,  piteously. 
"And  it  cannot  harm  him.  He  won't  remember  it  when 
he  comes  to  his  senses.  He'll  sleep  again  and — forget. 
He'll  go  back  to  her  and  never  know.  And  I  shall  never 
even  see  him  again.  Why  can't  I  have  my  little  sweet 
hour?" 

Once  more  the  man  cried  her  name,  and  she  knelt  forward 
and  bent  above  him.  "Oh,  at  last,  Coira!"  said  he.  "After 
so  long!  .  .  .  And  I  thought  it  was  another  dream!" 

"Do  you  dream  of  me,  Bayard  ?"  she  asked. 

And  he  said:  "From  the  very  first.  From  that  evening 

33° 


JASON 

in  the  Champs-Elysees.  Your  eyes,  they've  haunted  me 
from  the  very  first.  There  was  a  dream  of  you,"  he  said, 
"that  I  had  so  often — but  I  cannot  quite  remember,  because 
my  head  hurts.  What  is  the  matter  with  my  head  ?  I  was 
— going  somewhere.  It  was  so  very  important  that  I 
should  go,  but  I  have  forgotten  where  it  was  and  why  I  had 
to  go  there.  I  remember  only  that  you  called  to  me — called 
me  back — and  I  saw  your  eyes — and  I  couldn't  go.  You 
needed  me." 

"Ah,  sorely,  Bayard!     Sorely!"  cried  the  girl  above  him. 

"And  now,"  said  he,  whispering. 

"Now?"  she  said. 

"Coira,  I  love  you,"  said  the  man  on  the  couch. 

And  Coira  O'Hara  gave  a  single  dry  sob. 

She  said:  "Oh,  my  dear  love!  Now  I  wish  that  I  might 
die  after  hearing  you  say  that.  My  life,  Bayard,  is  full  now. 
It's  full  of  joy  and  gratefulness  and  everything  that  is  sweet. 
I  wish  I  might  die  before  other  things  come  to  spoil  it." 

Ste.  Marie — or  that  part  of  him  which  lay  at  La  Lierre — 
laughed  with  a  fine  scorn,  albeit  very  weakly.  "Why  not 
live  instead?"  said  he.  "And  what  can  come  to  spoil  our 
life  for  us  ?  Our  life!"  he  said  again,  in  a  whisper.  A 
flash  of  remembrance  seemed  to  come  to  him,  for  he  smiled 
and  said,  "Coira,  we'll  go  to  Vavau." 

"Anywhere!"  said  she.     "Anywhere!" 

"So  that  we  go  together." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  gently,  "so  that  we  two  go  together.'' 
She  tried  with  a  desperate  fierceness  to  make  herself  like 
the  man  before  her,  to  put  away,  by  sheer  power  of  will,  all 
memory,  the  knowledge  of  everything  save  what  was  in  this 
little  room,  but  it  was  the  vainest  of  all  vain  efforts.  She 
saw  herself  for  a  thief  and  a  cheat — stealing,  for  love's  sake, 

33 i 


JASON 

the  mere  body  of  the  man  she  loved  while  mind  and  soul 
were  absent.  In  her  agony  she  almost  cried  out  aloud  as 
the  words  said  themselves  within  her.  And  she  denied 
them.  She  said:  "His  mind  may  be  absent,  but  his  soul  is 
here.  He  loves  me.  It  is  I,  not  that  other.  Can  I  not  have 
my  poor  little  hour  of  pretence  ?  A  little  hour  out  of  all  a 
lifetime!  Shall  I  have  nothing  at  all  ?" 

But  the  voice  which  had  accused  her  said,  "If  he  knew, 
would  he  say  he  loves  you  ?"  And  she  hid  her  face,  for 
she  knew  that  he  would  not — even  if  it  were  true. 

"Coira!"  whispered  the  man  on  the  couch,  and  she  raised 
her  head.  In  the  half  darkness  he  could  not  have  seen 
how  she  was  suffering.  Her  face  was  only  a  warm  blur  to 
him,  vague  and  sweet  and  beautiful,  with  tender  eyes. 
He  said:  "I  think — I'm  falling  asleep.  My  head  is  so 
very,  very  queer!  What  is  the  matter  with  my  head  r  Coira, 
do  you  think  I  might  be  kissed  before  I  go  to  sleep  ?" 

She  gave  a  little  cry  of  intolerable  anguish.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  she  was  being  tortured  beyond  all  reason  or  en 
durance.  She  felt  suddenly  very  weak,  and  she  was  afraid 
that  she  was  going  to  faint  away.  She  laid  her  face  down 
upon  the  couch  where  Ste.  Marie's  head  lay.  Her  cheek 
was  against  his  and  her  hair  across  his  eyes. 

The  man  gaVe  a  contented  sigh  and  fell  asleep. 

Later,  she  rose  stiffly  and  wearily  to  her  feet.  She  stood 
for  a  little  while  looking  down  upon  him.  It  was  as  if  she 
looked  upon  the  dead  body  of  a  lover.  She  seemed  to  say 
a  still  and  white  and  tearless  farewell  to  him.  Her  little 
hour  was  done,  and  it  had  been,  instead  of  joy,  bitterness  un 
speakable:  ashes  in  the  mouth.  Then  she  went  out  of  the 
room  and  closed  the  door. 

In  the  hall  outside  she  stood  a  moment  considering,  and 

332 


JASON 

finally  mounted  the  stairs  and  went  to  her  father's  door. 
She  knocked  and  thought  she  heard  a  slight  stirring  inside, 
but  there  was  no  answer.  She  knocked  twice  again  and 
called  out  her  father's  name,  saying  that  she  wished  to  speak 
to  him,  but  still  he  made  no  reply,  and  after  waiting  a  little 
longer  she  turned  away.  She  went  down-stairs  again  and 
out  upon  the  terrace.  The  terrace  and  the  lawn  before  it 
were  still  checkered  with  silver  and  deep  black,  but  the 
moon  was  an  hour  lower  in  the  west.  A  little  cool  breeze 
had  sprung  up,  and  it  was  sweet  and  grateful  to  her.  She 
sat  down  upon  one  of  the  stone  benches  and  leaned  her 
head  back  against  the  trunk  of  a  tree  which  stood  beside 
it  and  she  remained  there  for  a  long  time,  still  and  relaxed, 
in  a  sort  of  bodily  and  mental  languor — an  exhaustion  of 
flesh  and  spirit. 

There  came  shambling  footsteps  upon  the  turf,  and  the 
old  Michel  advanced  into  the  moonlight  from  the  gloom  of 
the  trees,  emitting  mechanical  and  not  very  realistic  groans. 
He  had  been  hard  put  to  it  to  find  any  one  before  whom  he 
could  pour  out  his  tale  of  heroism  and  suffering.  Coira 
O'Hara  looked  upon  him  coldly,  and  the  gnome  groaned 
with  renewed  and  somewhat  frightened  energy. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?"  she  asked.  "Why  are 
you  about  at  this  hour  ?" 

The  old  Michel  told  his  piteous  tale  with  tears  and 
passion,  protesting  that  he  had  succumbed  only  before 
the  combined  attack  of  twenty  armed  men,  and  exhibiting 
his  wounds.  But  the  girl  gave  a  brief  and  mirthless  laugh. 

"You  were  bribed  to  tell  that,  I  suppose,"  said  she. 
"By  M.  Ste.  Marie?  Yes,  probably.  Well,  tell  it  to  my 
father  to-morrow!  You'd  better  go  to  bed  now." 

The  old  man  stared  at  her  with  open  mouth  for  a  breath- 
333 


JASON 

less  moment,  and  then  shambled  hastily  away,  looking  over 
his  shoulder  at  intervals  until  he  was  out  of  sight. 

But  after  that  the  girl  still  remained  in  her  place  from 
sheer  weariness  and  lack  of  impulse  to  move.  She  fell  to 
wondering  about  Captain  Stewart  and  what  had  become  of 
him,  but  she  did  not  greatly  care.  She  had  a  feeling  that 
her  world  had  come  to  its  end,  and  she  was  quite  indifferent 
about  those  who  still  peopled  its  ashes — or  about  all  of  them 
save  her  father. 

She  heard  the  distant  sound  of  a  motor-car,  and  at  that 
sat  up  quickly,  for  it  might  be  Ste.  Marie's  friend,  Mr. 
Hartley,  returning  from  Paris.  The  sound  came  nearer 
and  ceased,  but  she  waited  for  ten  minutes  before  rapid 
steps  approached  from  the  east  wall  and  Hartley  was  before 
her. 

He  cried  at  once:  "Where's  Ste.  Marie?  Where  is  he? 
He  hasn't  tried  to  walk  into  the  city  ?" 

"He  is  asleep  in  the  house,"  said  the  girl.  "He  was 
struck  on  the  head  and  stunned.  I  got  him  into  the  house, 
and  he  is  asleep  now.  Of  course,"  she  said,  "we  could 
wake  him,  but  it  would  probably  be  better  to  let  him  sleep 
as  long  as  he  will  if  it  is  possible.  It  will  save  him  a  great 
deal  of  pain,  I  think.  He'll  have  a  frightful  headache  if  he's 
wakened  now.  Could  you  come  for  him  or  send  for  him 
to-morrow — toward  noon  ?" 

"Why — yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Richard  Hartley.  "Yes, 
of  course,  if  you  think  that's  better.  Could  I  just  see  him 
for  a  moment  ?"  He  stared  at  the  girl  a  bit  suspiciously, 
and  Coira  looked  back  at  him  with  a  little  tired  smile,  for 
she  read  his  thought. 

"You  want  to  make  sure,"  said  she.  "Of  course!  Yes, 
come  in.  He's  sleeping  very  soundly."  She  led  the  man 

334 


JASON 

into  that  dim  room  where  Ste.  Marie  lay,  and  Hartley's 
quick  eye  noted  the  basin  of  water  and  the  stained  towels 
and  the  little  bottle  of  aromatic  salts.  He  bent  over  his 
friend  to  see  the  bruise  at  the  side  of  the  head,  and  listened 
to  the  sleeper's  breathing.  Then  the  two  went  out  again 
to  the  moonlit  terrace. 

"You  must  forgive  me,"  said  he,  when  they  had  come 
there.  "You  must  forgive  me  for  seeming  suspicious,  but — 
all  this  wretched  business — and  he  is  my  closest  friend — 
I've  come  to  suspect  everybody.  I  was  unjust,  for  you 
helped  us  to  get  away.  I  beg  your  pardon!" 

The  girl  smiled  at  him  again,  her  little,  white,  tired  smile, 
and  she  said:  "There  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  to  make 
amends — now  that  I  know — the  truth." 

"Yes,"  said  Hartley,  "I  understand.  Arthur  Benham 
told  me  how  Stewart  lied  to  you  all.  Was  it  he  who  struck 
Ste.  Marie?" 

She  nodded.  "And  then  tried  to  shoot  him  ;  but  he 
didn't  succeed  in  that.  I  wonder  where  he  is — Captain 
Stewart  ?" 

"I  have  him  out  in  the  car,"  Hartley  said.  "Oh,  he 
shall  pay,  you  may  be  sure! — if  he  doesn't  die  and  cheat 
us,  that  is.  I  nearly  ran  the  car  over  him  a  few  minutes 
ago.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  moonlight  I  would  have  done 
for  him.  He  was  lying  on  his  face  in  that  lane  that  leads 
to  the  Issy  road.  I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with  him- 
He's  only  half  conscious  and  he's  quite  helpless.  He  looks 
as  if  he'd  had  a  stroke  of  apoplexy  or  something.  I  must 
hurry  him  back  to  Paris,  I  suppose,  and  get  him  under  a 
doctor's  care.  I  wonder  what's  wrong  with  him  ?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head,  for  she  did  not  know  of 
Stewart's  epileptic  seizures.  She  thought  it  quite  possi- 

335 


JASON 

ble  that  he  had  suffered  a  stroke  of  apoplexy  as  Hartley 
suggested,  for  she  remembered  the  half-mad  state  he  had 
been  in. 

Richard  Hartley  stood  for  a  time  in  thought.  "I  must 
get  Stewart  back  to  Paris  at  once,"  he  said,  finally.  "I 
must  get  him  under  care  and  in  a  safe  place  from  which  he 
can't  escape.  It  will  want  some  managing.  If  I  can  get 
away  I'll  come  out  here  again  in  the  morning,  but  if  not 
I'll  send  the  car  out  with  orders  to  wait  here  until  Ste. 
Marie  is  ready  to  return  to  the  city.  Are  you  sure  he's 
all  right — that  he  isn't  badly  hurt  ?" 

"I  think  he  will  be  all  right,"  she  said,  "save  for  the  pain. 
He  was  only  stunned." 

And  Hartley  nodded.  "He  seems  to  be  breathing  quite 
naturally,"  said  he.  "That's  arranged,  then.  The  car 
will  be  here  in  waiting,  and  I  shall  come  with  it  if  I  can. 
Tell  him  when  he  wakes."  He  put  out  his  hand  to  her, 
and  the  girl  gave  him  hers  very  listlessly  but  smiling.  She 
wished  he  would  go  and  leave  her  alone. 

Then  in  a  moment  more  he  did  go,  and  she  heard  his 
quick  steps  down  through  the  trees,  and  heard,  a  little  later, 
the  engine  of  the  motor-car  start  up  with  a  sudden  loud 
volley  of  explosions.  And  so  she  was  left  to  her  solitary 
watch.  She  noticed,  as  she  turned  to  go  indoors,  that  the 
blackness  of  the  night  was  just  beginning  to  gray  toward 
dawn. 


XXIX 

THE    SCALES   OF   INJUSTICE 

STE.  MARIE  slept  soundly  until  mid-morning  —  that 
it  to  say,  about  ten  o'clock — and  then  awoke  with  a 
dull  pain  in  his  head  and  a  sensation  of  extreme  giddiness 
which  became  something  like  vertigo  when  he  attempted  to 
rise.  However,  with  the  aid  of  the  old  Michel  he  got  some 
how  up-stairs  to  his  room  and  made  a  rather  sketchy 
toilet. 

Coira  came  to  him  there,  and  while  he  lay  still  across  the 
bed  told  him  about  the  happenings  of  the  night  after  he 
had  received  his  injury.  She  told  him  also  that  the  motor 
was  waiting  for  him  outside  the  wall,  and  that  Richard 
Hartley  had  sent  a  message  by  the  chauffeur  to  say  that  he 
was  very  busy  in  Paris  making  arrangements  about  Stewart, 
who  had  come  out  of  his  strange  state  of  half-insensibility 
only  to  rave  in  a  delirium. 

"So,"  she  said,  "you  can  go  now  whenever  you  are 
ready.  Arthur  is  with  his  family,  Captain  Stewart  is  under 
guard,  and  your  work  is  done.  You  ought  to  be  glad — 
even  though  you  are  suffering  pain." 

Ste.  Marie  looked  up  at  her.  "Do  I  seem  glad,  Coira  ?" 
said  he. 

And  she  said:  "You  will  be  glad  to-morrow— and  always, 
I  hope  and  pray.  Always!  Always!" 

337 


JASON 

The  man  held  one  hand  over  his  aching  eyes. 

"I  have,"  he  said,  "queer  half-memories.  I  wish  I 
could  remember  distinctly. 

He  looked  up  at  her  again. 

"I  dropped  down  by  the  gate  in  the  wall.  When  I 
awoke  I  was  in  a  room  in  the  house.  How  did  that 
happen  ?" 

"Oh,"  she  said,  turning  her  face  away,  "we  got  you  up 
to  the  house  almost  at  once." 

But  Ste.  Marie  frowned  thoughtfully. 

"'We'  ?     Who  do  you  mean  by  'we'  ?" 

"Well,  then,  I,"  the  girl  said.     "It  was  not  difficult." 

"Coira,"  cried  the  man,  "do  you  mean  that  you  carried 
me  bodily  all  that  long  distance  ?  You  ?" 

"Carried  or  dragged,"  she  said.  "As  much  one  as  the 
other.  It  was  not  very  difficult.  I'm  strong  for  a  woman." 

"Oh,  child!  child!"  he  cried.  And  he  said:  "I  remember 
more.  It  was  you  who  held  Stewart  and  kept  him  from 
shooting  me.  I  heard  the  shot  and  I  heard  you  scream. 
The  last  thought  I  had  was  that  you  had  been  killed  in 
saving  me.  That's  what  I  went  out  into  the  blank 
thinking." 

He  covered  his  eyes  again  as  if  the  memory  were  in 
tolerable.  But  after  awhile  he  said: 

"You  saved  my  life,  you  know." 

And  the  girl  answered  him: 

"I  had  nearly  taken  it  once  before.  It  was  I  who  called 
Michel  that  day  you  came  over  the  wall,  the  day  you  were 
shot.  I  nearly  murdered  you  once.  I  owed  you  something. 
Perhaps  we're  even  now." 

She  saw  that  he  did  not  at  all  remember  that  hour  in 
the  little  room — her  hour  of  bitterness — and  she  was  glad. 

338 


JASON 

She  had  felt  sure  that  it  would  be  so.  For  the  present  she 
did  not  greatly  suffer,  she  had  come  to  a  state  beyond  active 
suffering — a  chill  state  of  dulled  sensibilities. 

The  old  Justine  knocked  at  the  door  to  ask  if  Monsieur 
was  going  into  the  city  soon  or  if  she  should  give  the 
chauffeur  his  dejeuner  and  tell  him  to  wait. 

"Are  you  fit  to  go?"  Coira  asked. 

And  he  said,   "I  suppose  as  fit  as  I  shall  be." 

He  got  to  his  feet,  and  the  things  about  him  swam  dan 
gerously,  but  he  could  walk  by  using  great  care.  The  girl 
stood  white  and  still,  and  she  avoided  his  eyes. 

"It  is  not  good-bye,"  said  he.  "I  shall  see  you  soon 
again — and  I  hope,  often — often,  Coira." 

The  words  had  a  flat  and  foolish  sound,  but  he  could 
find  no  others.  It  was  not  easy  to  speak. 

"I  suppose  I  must  not  ask  to  see  your  father?"  said  he. 

And  she  told  him  that  her  father  had  locked  himself  in 
his  own  room  and  would  see  no  one — would  not  even  open 
his  door  to  take  in  food. 

Ste.  Marie  went  to  the  stairs  leaning  upon  the  shoulder 
of  the  stout  old  Justine,  but  before  he  had  gone  Coira 
checked  him  for  an  instant.  She  said: 

"Tell  Arthur,  if  he  speaks  to  you  about  me,  that  what 
I  said  in  the  note  I  gave  him  last  night  I  meant  quite 
seriously.  I  gave  him  a  note  to  read  after  he  reached 
home.  Tell  him  for  me  that  it  was  final.  Will  you  do 
that  ?" 

"Yes,  of  course,"  said  Ste.  Marie. 

He  looked  at  her  with  some  wonder,  because  her  words 
had  been  very  emphatic. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  will  tell  him.     Is  that  all?" 

"All  but  good-bye,"  said  she.     "Good-bye,  Bayard!" 
339 


JASON 

She  stood  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  while  he  went  down 
them.  And  she  came  after  him  to  the  landing,  half-way, 
where  the  stairs  turned  in  the  opposite  direction  for  their 
lower  flight.  When  he  went  out  of  the  front  door  he  looked 
back,  and  she  was  standing  there  above  him,  a  straight,  still 
figure,  dark  against  the  light  of  the  windows  behind  her. 

He  went  straight  to  the  rue  d'Assas.  He  found  that 
while  he  sat  still  in  the  comfortable  tonneau  of  the  motor 
his  head  was  fairly  normal,  and  the  world  did  not  swing 
and  whirl  about  in  that  sickening  fashion.  But  when  the 
car  lurched  or  bumped  over  an  obstruction  it  made  him 
giddy,  and  he  would  have  fallen  had  he  been  standing. 

The  familiar  streets  of  the  Montparnasse  and  Luxem 
bourg  quarters  had  for  his  eyes  all  the  charm  and  delight 
of  home  things  to  the  returned  traveller.  He  felt  as  if  he 
had  been  away  for  months,  and  he  caught  himself  looking 
for  changes,  and  it  made  him  laugh.  He  was  much  re 
lieved  when  he  found  that  his  concierge  was  not  on  watch, 
and  that  he  could  slip  unobserved  up  the  stairs  and  into 
his  rooms.  The  rooms  were  fresh  and  clean,  for  they 
had  been  aired  and  tended  daily. 

Arrived  there,  he  wrote  a  little  note  to  a  friend  of  his  who 
was  a  doctor  and  lived  in  the  rue  Notre  Dame  des  Champs, 
asking  this  man  to  call  as  soon  as  it  might  be  convenient. 
He  sent  the  note  by  the  chauffeur  and  then  lay  down, 
dressed  as  he  was,  to  wait,  for  he  could  not  stand  or  move 
about  without  a  painful  dizziness.  The  doctor  came 
within  a  half-hour,  examined  Ste.  Marie's  bruised  head,  and 
bound  it  up.  He  gave  him  a  dose  of  something  with  a  vile 
taste  which  he  said  would  take  away  the  worst  of  the  pain 
in  a  few  hours,  and  he  also  gave  him  a  sleeping-potion, 
and  made  him  go  to  bed. 

340 


JASON 

"You'll  be  fairly  fit  by  evening,"  he  said.  "But  don't 
stir  until  then.  I'll  leave  word  below  that  you're  not  to 
be  disturbed." 

So  it  happened  that  when  Richard  Hartley  came  dashing 
up  an  hour  or  two  later  he  was  not  allowed  to  see  his  friend, 
and  Ste.  Marie  slept  a  dreamless  sleep  until  dark. 

He  awoke  then,  refreshed  but  ravenous  with  hunger,  and 
found  that  there  was  only  a  dull  ache  in  his  battered  head. 
The  dizziness  and  the  vertigo  were  almost  completely  gone. 
He  made  lights  and  dressed  with  care.  He  felt  like  a  little 
girl  making  ready  for  a  party,  it  was  so  long — or  seemed  so 
long — since  he  had  put  on  evening  clothes.  Then  he  went 
out,  leaving  at  the  loge  of  the  concierge  a  note  for  Hartley, 
to  say  where  he  might  be  found.  He  went  to  Lavenue's 
and  dined  in  solitary  pomp,  for  it  was  after  nine  o'clock. 
Again  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  was  months  since  he  had 
done  the  like — sat  down  to  a  real  table  for  a  real  dinner. 
At  ten  he  got  into  a  fiacre  and  drove  to  the  rue  de  1'Uni- 
versite. 

The  man  who  admitted  him  said  that  Mademoiselle  was 
alone  in  the  drawing-room,  and  he  went  there  at  once.  He 
Was  dully  conscious  that  something  was  very  wrong,  but 
he  had  suffered  too  much  within  the  past  few  hours  to  be 
analytical,  and  he  did  not  know  what  it  was  that  was  wrong. 
He  should  have  entered  that  room  with  a  swift  and  eager 
step,  with  shining  eyes,  with  a  high-beating  heart.  He 
went  into  it  slowly,  wrapped  in  a  mantle  of  strange  apathy. 

Helen  Benham  came  forward  to  meet  him,  and  took 
both  his  hands  in  hers.  Ste.  Marie  was  amazed  to  see 
that  she  seemed  not  to  have  altered  at  all — in  spite  of  this 
enormous  lapse  of  time,  in  spite  of  all  that  had  happened 
in  it.  And  yet,  unaltered,  she  seemed  to  him  a  stranger, 

341 


JASON 

a  charming  and  gracious  stranger  with  an  icily  beautiful 
face.  He  wondered  at  her  and  at  himself,  and  he  was  a 
little  alarmed  because  he  thought  that  he  must  be  ill. 
That  blow  upon  the  head  must,  after  all,  have  done  some 
thing  terrible  to  him. 

"Ah,  Ste.  Marie!"  she  said,  in  her  well-remembered 
voice — and  again  he  wondered  that  the  voice  should  be  so 
high-pitched  and  so  without  color  or  feeling.  "How  glad 
I  am,"  she  said,  "that  you  are  safely  out  of  it  all!  How 
you  have  suffered  for  us,  Ste.  Marie!  You  look  white  and 
ill.  Sit  down,  please!  Don't  stand!" 

She  drew  him  to  a  comfortable  chair,  and  he  sat  down  in 
it  obediently.  He  could  not  think  of  anything  to  say, 
though  he  was  not,  as  a  rule,  tongue-tied;  but  the  girl  did 
not  seem  to  expect  any  answer,  for  she  went  on  at  once 
with  a  rather  odd  air  of  haste: 

"Arthur  is  here  with  us,  safe  and  sound.  Richard  Hart 
ley  brought  him  back  from  that  dreadful  place,  and  he  has 
talked  everything  over  with  my  grandfather,  and  it's  all 
right.  They  both  understand  now,  and  there'll  be  no 
more  trouble.  We  have  had  to  be  careful,  very  careful, 
and  we  have  had  to — well,  to  rearrange  the  facts  a  little  so 
as  to  leave — my  uncle — to  leave  Captain  Stewart's  name 
out  of  it.  It  would  not  do  to  shock  my  grandfather  by 
telling  him  the  truth.  Perhaps  later;  I  don't  know.  That 
will  have  to  be  thought  of.  For  the  present  we  have  left 
my  uncle  out  of  it,  and  put  the  blame  entirely  upon  this 
other  man.  I  forget  his  name." 

"The  blame  cannot  rest  there,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  sharply. 
"It  is  not  deserved,  and  I  shall  not  allow  it  to  be  left  so. 
Captain  Stewart  lied  to  O'Hara  throughout.  You  cannot 
leave  the  blame  with  an  innocent  man." 

342 


JASON 

"Still,"  she  said,  "such  a  man!" 

Ste.  Marie  looked  at  her,  frowning,  and  the  girl  turned 
her  eyes  away.  She  may  have  had  the  grace  to  be  a  little 
ashamed. 

"Think  of  the  difficulty  we  were  in!"  she  urged.  "Cap 
tain  Stewart  is  my  grandfather's  own  son.  We  cannot  tell 
him  now,  in  his  weak  state,  that  his  own  son  is — what 
he  is." 

There  was  reason  if  not  justice  in  that,  and  Ste.  Marie 
was  forced  to  admit  it.  He  said: 

"Ah,  well,  for  the  present,  then.  That  can  be  arranged 
later.  The  main  point  is  that  I've  found  your  brother  for 
you.  I've  brought  him  back." 

Miss  Benham  looked  up  at  him  and  away  again,  and  she 
drew  a  quick  breath.  He  saw  her  hands  move  restlessly  in 
her  lap,  and  he  was  aware  that  for  some  odd  reason  she 
was  very  ill  at  ease.  At  last  she  said: 

"Ah,  but — but  have  you,  dear  Ste.  Marie  ?     Have  you  ?" 

After  a  brief  silence  she  stole  another  swift  glance  at  the 
man,  and  he  was  staring  in  open  and  frank  bewilderment. 
She  rushed  into  rapid  speech. 

"Ah,"  she  cried,  "don't  misunderstand  me!  Don't 
think  that  I'm  brutal  or  ungrateful  for  all  you've — you've 
suffered  in  trying  to  help  us!  Don't  think  that!  I  can — 
we  can  never  be  grateful  enough — never!  But  stop  and 
think!  Yes,  I  know  this  all  sounds  hideous,  but  it's  so 
terribly  important.  I  shouldn't  dream  of  saying  a  word 
of  it  if  it  weren't  so  important,  if  so  much  didn't  depend 
upon  it.  But  stop  and  think!  Was  it,  dear  Ste.  Marie,  was 
it,  after  all,  you  ?  Was  it  you  who  brought  Arthur  to  us  ?" 

The  man  fairly  blinked  at  her,  owl-like.  He  was  be 
yond  speech. 

*3  343 


JASON 

"Wasn't  it  Richard?"  she  hurried  on.  "Wasn't  it 
Richard  Hartley  ?  Ah,  if  I  could  only  say  it  without  seem 
ing  so  contemptibly  heartless!  If  only  I  needn't  say  it  at 
all!  But  it  must  be  said  because  of  what  depends  upon  it. 
Think!  Go  back  to  the  beginning!  Wasn't  it  Richard 
who  first  began  to  suspect  my  uncle  ?  Didn't  he  tell  you 
or  write  to  you  what  he  had  discovered,  and  so  set  you  upon 
the  right  track  ?  And  after  you  had — well,  just  fallen  into 
their  hands,  with  no  hope  of  ever  escaping  yourself — to 
say  nothing  of  bringing  Arthur  back — wasn't  it  Richard 
who  came  to  your  rescue  and  brought  it  all  to  victory  ? 
Oh,  Ste.  Marie,  I  must  be  just  to  him  as  well  as  to  you! 
Don't  you  see  that  ?  However  grateful  I  may  be  to  you 
for  what  you  have  done — suffered — I  cannot,  in  justice,  give 
you  what  I  was  to  have  given  you,  since  it  is,  after  all, 
Richard  who  has  saved  my  brother.  I  cannot,  can  I  ? 
Surely  you  must  see  it.  And  you  must  see  how  it  hurts  me 
to  have  to  say  it.  I  had  hoped  that — you  would  under 
stand — without  my  speaking." 

Still  the  man  sat  in  his  trance  of  astonishment,  speech 
less.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  brought  face  to 
face  with  the  amazing,  the  appalling  injustice  of  which  a 
woman  is  capable  when  her  heart  is  concerned.  This  girl 
wished  to  believe  that  to  Richard  Hartley  belonged  the 
credit  of  rescuing  her  brother,  and  lo!  she  believed  it.  A 
score  of  juries  might  have  decided  against  her,  a  hundred 
proofs  controverted  her  decision,  but  she  would  have  been 
deaf  and  blind.  It  is  only  women  who  accomplish  miracles 
of  reasoning  like  that. 

Ste.  Marie  took  a  long  breath  and  he  started  to  speak, 
but  in  the  end  shook  his  head  and  remained  silent.  Through 
the  whirl  and  din  of  falling  skies  he  was  yet  able  to  see  the 

344 


JASON 

utter  futility  of  words.  He  could  have  adduced  a  hundred 
arguments  to  prove  her  absurdity.  He  could  have  shown 
her  that  before  he  ever  read  Hartley's  note  he  had  decided 
upon  Stewart's  guilt — and  for  much  better  reasons  than 
Hartley  had.  He  could  have  pointed  out  to  her  that  it  was 
he,  not  Hartley,  who  discovered  young  Benham's  where 
abouts,  that  it  was  he  who  summoned  Hartley  there,  and 
that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Hartley  need  not  have  come  at 
all,  since  the  boy  had  been  persuaded  to  go  home  in  any 
case. 

He  thought  of  all  these  things  and  more,  and  in  a  mo 
ment  of  sheer  anger  at  her  injustice  he  was  on  the  point 
of  stating  them,  but  he  shook  his  head  and  remained  silent. 
After  all,  of  what  use  was  speech  ?  He  knew  that  it  could 
make  no  impression  upon  her,  and  he  knew  why.  For 
some  reason,  in  some  way,  she  had  turned  during  his  ab 
sence  to  Richard  Hartley,  and  there  was  nothing  more  to 
be  said.  There  was  no  treachery  on  Hartley's  part.  He 
knew  that,  and  it  never  even  occurred  to  him  to  blame  his 
friend.  Hartley  was  as  faithful  as  any  one  who  ever  lived. 
It  seemed  to  be  nobody's  fault.  It  had  just  happened. 

He  looked  at  the  girl  before  him  with  a  new  expression, 
an  expression  of  sheer  curiosity.  It  seemed  to  him  well- 
nigh  incredible  that  any  human  being  could  be  so  unjust 
and  so  blind.  Yet  he  knew  her  to  be,  in  other  matters,  one 
of  the  fairest  of  all  women,  just  and  tender  and  thoughtful 
and  true.  He  knew  that  she  prided  herself  upon  her  cool 
impartiality  of  judgment.  He  shook  his  head  with  a  little 
sigh  and  ceased  to  wonder  any  more.  It  was  beyond  him. 
He  became  aware  that  he  ought  to  say  something,  and 
he  said: 

"Yes.     Yes,    I — see.     I    see    what    you    mean.     Yes, 

345 


JASON 

Hartley  did  all  you  say.  I  hadn't  meant  to  rob  Hartley  of 
the  credit  he  deserves.  I  suppose  you're  right." 

He  was  possessed  of  a  sudden  longing  to  get  away  out 
of  that  room,  and  he  rose  to  his  feet. 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  he  said,  "I  think  I'd  better 
go.  This  is  —  well,  it's  a  bit  of  a  facer,  you  see.  I 
want  to  think  it  over.  Perhaps  to-morrow  —  you  don't 
mind  ?" 

He  saw  a  swift  relief  flash  into  Miss  Benham's  eyes,  but 
she  murmured  a  few  words  of  protest  that  had  a  rather 
perfunctory  sound.  Ste.  Marie  shook  his  head. 

"Thanks!  I  won't  stay,"  said  he.  "Not  just  now. 
I — think  I'd  better  go." 

He  had  a  confused  realization  of  platitudinous  adieus, 
of  a  silly  formality  of  speech,  and  he  found  himself  in  the 
hall.  Once  he  glanced  back  and  Miss  Benham  was  stand 
ing  where  he  had  left  her,  looking  after  him  with  a  calm 
and  unimpassioned  face.  He  thought  that  she  looked 
rather  like  a  very  beautiful  statue. 

The  butler  came  to  him  to  say  that  Mr.  Stewart  would 
be  glad  if  he  would  look  in  before  leaving  the  house,  and 
so  he  went  up-stairs  and  knocked  at  old  David's  door. 
He  moved  like  a  man  in  a  dream,  and  the  things  about  him 
seemed  to  be  curiously  unreal  and  rather  far  away,  as  they 
seem  sometimes  in  a  fever. 

He  was  admitted  at  once,  and  he  found  the  old  man 
sitting  up  in  bed,  clad  in  one  of  his  incredibly  gorgeous 
mandarin's  jackets — plum -colored  satin  this  time,  with 
peonies — overflowing  with  spirits  and  good-humor.  His 
grandson  sat  in  a  chair  near  at  hand.  The  old  man  gave 
a  shout  of  welcome: 

"Ah,  here's  Jason  at  last,  back  from  Colchis!  Welcome 

346 


JASON 

home  to — whatever  the  name  of  the  place  was!    Welcome 
home!" 

He  shook  Ste.  Marie's  hand  with  hospitable  violence, 
and  Ste.  Marie  was  astonished  to  see  upon  what  a  new 
lease  of  life  and  strength  the  old  man  seemed  to  have  en 
tered.  There  was  no  ingratitude  or  misconception  here, 
certainly.  Old  David  quite  overwhelmed  his  visitor  with 
thanks  and  with  expressions  of  affection. 

"You've  saved  my  life  among  other  things!"  he  said,  in 
his  gruff  roar.  "I  was  ready  to  go,  but,  by  the  Lord,  I'm 
going  to  stay  awhile  longer  now!  This  world's  a  better 
place  than  I  thought — a  much  better  place."  He  shook 
a  heavily  waggish  head.  "If  I  didn't  know,"  said  he, 
"what  your  reward  is  to  be  for  what  you've  done,  I  should 
be  in  despair  over  it  all,  because  there  is  nothing  else  in  the 
world  that  would  be  anything  like  adequate.  You've  been 
making  sure  of  the  reward  down-stairs,  I  dare  say  ?  Eh, 
what?  Yes?" 

"You  mean — ?"  asked  the  younger  man. 

And  old  David  said : "  I  mean  Helen,  of  course.  What  else  ?" 

Ste.  Marie  was  not  quite  himself.  At  another  time  he 
might  have  got  out  of  the  room  with  an  evasive  answer, 
but  he  spoke  without  thinking.  He  said: 

"Oh — yes!  I  suppose — I  suppose  I  ought  to  tell  you 
that  Miss  Benham — well,  she  has  changed  her  mind.  That 
is  to  say — 

"What!"  shouted  old  David  Stewart,  in  his  great  voice. 
"What  is  that?" 

"Why,  it  seems,"  said  Ste.  Marie — "it  seems  that  I  only 
blundered.  It  seems  that  Hartley  rescued  your  grandson, 
not  I.  And  I  suppose  he  did,  you  know.  When  you  come 
to  think  of  it,  I  suppose  he  did." 

347 


JASON 

David  Stewart's  great  white  beard  seemed  to  bristle  like 
the  ruff  of  an  angry  dog,  and  his  eyes  flashed  fiercely  under 
their  shaggy  brows.  "Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  after 
all  you've  done  and — and  gone  through,  Helen  has  thrown 
you  over  ?  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  ?" 

"Well,"  argued  Ste.  Marie,  uncomfortably — "well,  you 
see,  she  seems  to  be  right.  I  did  bungle  it,  didn't  I  ?  It 
was  Hartley  who  came  and  pulled  us  out  of  the  hole." 

"Hartley  be  damned!"  cried  the  old  man,  in  a  towering 
rage.  And  he  began  to  pour  out  the  most  extraordinary 
flood  of  furious  invective  upon  his  granddaughter  and  upon 
Richard  Hartley,  whom  he  quite  unjustly  termed  a  snake- 
in-the-grass,  and  finally  upon  all  women,  past,  contempo 
rary,  or  still  to  be  born. 

Ste.  Marie,  in  fear  for  old  David's  health,  tried  to  calm 
him,  and  the  faithful  valet  came  running  from  the  room 
beyond  with  prayers  and  protestations,  but  nothing  would 
check  that  astonishing  flow  of  fury  until  it  had  run  its  full 
course.  Then  the  man  fell  back  upon  his  pillows,  crimson, 
panting,  and  exhausted,  but  the  fierce  eyes  glittered  still, 
and  they  boded  no  good  for  Miss  Helen  Benham. 

"You're  well  rid  of  her!"  said  the  old  gentleman,  when  at 
last  he  was  once  more  able  to  speak.  "You're  well  rid  of 
her!  I  congratulate  you!  I  am  ashamed  and  humiliated, 
and  a  great  burden  of  obligation  is  shifted  to  me — though 
I  assume  it  with  pleasure — but  I  congratulate  you.  You 
might  have  found  out  too  late  what  sort  of  a  woman  she  is." 

Ste.  Marie  began  to  protest  and  to  explain  and  to  say 
that  Miss  Benham  had  been  quite  right  in  what  she  said, 
but  the  old  gentleman  only  waved  an  impatient  arm  to  him, 
and  presently,  when  he  saw  the  valet  making  signs  across 
the  bed,  and  saw  that  his  host  was  really  in  a  state  of  com- 

348 


JASON 

plete  exhaustion  after  the  outburst,  he  made  his  adieus  and 
got  away. 

Young  Arthur  Benham,  who  had  been  sitting  almost 
silent  during  the  interview,  followed  him  out  of  the  room 
and  closed  the  door  behind  them.  For  the  first  time  Ste. 
Marie  noted  that  the  boy's  face  was  white  and  strained. 
He  pulled  a  crumpled  square  of  folded  paper  from  his 
pocket  and  shook  it  at  the  other  man.  "Do  you  know 
what  this  is?"  he  cried.  "Do  you  know  what's  in  this?" 

Ste.  Marie  shook  his  head,  but  a  sudden  recollection 
came  to  him. 

"Ah,"  said  he,  "that  must  be  the  note  Mile.  O'Hara  spoke 
of!  She  asked  me  to  tell  you  that  she  meant  it — whatever 
it  may  be — quite  seriously;  that  it  was  final.  She  didn't 
explain.  She  just  said  that — that  you  were  to  take  it  as 
final." 

The  lad  gave  a  sudden  very  bitter  sob.     "She  has  thrown 

me  over!"  he  said.     "She  says  I'm  not  to  come  back  to 

h»» 
er. 

Ste.  Marie  gave  a  wordless  cry,  and  he  began  to  tremble. 

"You  can  read  it  if  you  want  to,"  the  boy  said.  "Per 
haps  you  can  explain  it.  I  can't.  Do  you  want  to  read  it  ?" 

The  elder  man  stood  staring  at  him  whitely,  and  the 
boy  repeated  his  words. 

He  said,  "You  can  read  it  if  you  want  to,"  and  at  last 
Ste.  Marie  took  the  paper  between  stiff  hands,  and  held 
it  to  the  light. 

Coira  O'Hara  said,  briefly,  that  too  much  was  against 
their  marriage.  She  mentioned  his  age,  the  certain  hos 
tility  of  his  family,  their  different  tastes,  a  number  of 
other  things.  But  in  the  end  she  said  she  had  begun  to 
realize  that  she  did  not  love  him  as  she  ought  to  do  if  they 

349 


JASON 

were  to  marry.  And  so,  the  note  said,  finally,  she  gave  him 
up  to  his  family,  she  released  him  altogether,  and  she  begged 
him  not  to  come  back  to  her,  or  to  urge  her  to  change  her 
mind.  Also  she  made  the  trite  but  very  sensible  observa 
tion  that  he  would  be  glad  of  his  freedom  before  the  year 
was  out. 

Ste.  Marie's  unsteady  fingers  opened  and  the  crumpled 
paper  slipped  through  them  to  the  floor.  Over  it  the  man 
and  the  boy  looked  at  each  other  in  silence.  Young  Arthur 
Benham's  face  was  white,  and  it  was  strained  and  contorted 
with  its  first  grief.  But  first  griefs  do  not  last  very  long. 
Coira  O'Hara  had  told  the  truth — before  the  year  was  out 
the  lad  would  be  glad  of  his  freedom.  But  the  man's  face 
was  white  also,  white  and  still,  and  his  eyes  held  a  strange 
expression  which  the  boy  could  not  understand  and  at 
which  he  wondered.  The  man  was  trembling  a  little  from 
head  to  foot.  The  boy  wondered  about  that,  too,  but 
abruptly  he  cried  out:  "What's  up  ?  Where  are  you  going  ?" 
for  Ste.  Marie  had  turned  all  at  once  and  was  running  down 
the  stairs  as  fast  as  he  could  run. 


XXX 

JASON    SAILS   BACK  TO   COLCHIS. — JOURNEY' S   END 

IN  the  hall  below,  Ste.  Marie  came  violently  into  contact 
with  and  nearly  overturned  Richard  Hartley,  who  was 
just  giving  his  hat  and  stick  to  the  man  who  had  admitted 
him.  Hartley  seized  upon  him  with  an  exclamation  of 
pleasure,  and  wheeled  him  round  to  face  the  light.  He 
said: 

"I've  been  pursuing  you  all  day.  You're  almost  as 
difficult  of  access  here  in  Paris  as  you  were  at  La  Lierre. 
How's  the  head  ?" 

Ste.  Marie  put  up  an  experimental  hand.  He  had  for 
gotten  his  injury.  "Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  he.  "At 
least,  I  think  so.  Anderson  fixed  me  up  this  afternoon. 
But  I  haven't  time  to  talk  to  you.  I'm  in  a  hurry.  To 
morrow  we'll  have  a  long  chin.  Oh,  how  about  Stewart  ?" 

He  lowered  his  voice,  and  Hartley  answered  him  in  the 
same  tone. 

"The  man  is  in  a  delirium.  Heaven  knows  how  it'll 
end.  He  may  die  and  he  may  pull  through.  I  hope  he 
pulls  through — except  for  the  sake  of  the  family — because 
then  we  can  make  him  pay  for  what  he's  done.  I  don't 
want  him  to  go  scot  free  by  dying." 

"Nor  I,"  said  Ste.  Marie,  fiercely.  "Nor  I.  I  want 
him  to  pay,  too — long  and  slowly  and  hard;  and  if  he  lives 

351 


JASON 

I  shall  see  that  he  does  it,  family  or  no  family.  Now  I  must 
be  off." 

Ste.  Marie's  face  was  shining  and  uplifted.  The  other 
man  looked  at  it  with  a  little  envious  sigh. 

"I  see  everything  is  all  right,"  said  he,  "and  I  con 
gratulate  you.  You  deserve  it  if  ever  any  one  did." 

Ste.  Marie  stared  for  an  instant,  uncomprehending. 
Then  he  saw. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  gently,  "everything  is  all  right." 

It  was  plain  that  the  Englishman  did  not  know  of  Miss 
Benham's  decision.  He  was  incapable  of  deceit.  Ste. 
Marie  threw  an  arm  over  his  friend's  shoulder  and  went 
with  him  a  little  way  toward  the  drawing-room. 

"Go  in  there,"  he  said.  "You'll  find  some  one  glad  to 
see  you,  I  think.  And  remember  that  I  said  everything  is 
all  right." 

He  came  back  after  he  had  turned  away,  and  met  Hart 
ley's  puzzled  frown  with  a  smile. 

"If  you've  that  motor  here,  may  I  use  it?"  he  asked. 
"I  want  to  go  somewhere  in  a  hurry." 

"Of  course,"  the  other  man  said.  "Of  course.  I'll  go 
home  in  a  cab." 

So  they  parted,  and  Ste.  Marie  went  out  to  the  waiting 
car. 

On  the  left  bank  the  streets  are  nearly  empty  of  traffic 
at  night,  and  one  can  make  excellent  time  over  them.  Ste. 
Marie  reached  the  Porte  de  Versailles,  at  the  city's  limits, 
in  twenty  minutes  and  dashed  through  Issy  five  minutes 
later.  In  less  than  half  an  hour  from  the  time  he  had  left 
the  rue  de  1'Universite  he  was  under  the  walls  of  La  Lierre. 
He  looked  at  his  watch,  and  it  was  not  quite  half-past 
eleven. 

352 


JASON 

He  tried  the  little  door  in  the  wall,  and  it  was  unlocked, 
so  he  passed  in  and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  Inside 
he  found  that  he  was  running,  and  he  gave  a  little  laugh, 
but  of  eagerness  and  excitement,  not  of  mirth.  There  were 
dim  lights  in  one  or  two  of  the  upper  windows,  but  none 
below,  and  there  was  no  one  about.  He  pulled  at  the  door 
bell,  and  after  a  few  impatient  moments  pulled  again  and 
still  again.  Then  he  noticed  that  the  heavy  door  was  ajar, 
and,  since  no  one  answered  his  ringing,  he  pushed  the  door 
open  and  went  in. 

The  lower  hall  was  quite  dark,  but  a  very  faint  light 
came  down  from  above  through  the  well  of  the  staircase. 
He  heard  dragging  feet  in  the  upper  hall,  and  then  upon 
one  of  the  upper  flights,  for  the  stairs,  broad  below,  divided 
at  a  half-way  landing  and  continued  upward  in  an  opposite 
direction  in  two  narrower  flights.  A  voice,  very  faint  and 
weary,  called: 

"Who  is  there  ?     Who  is  ringing,  please  ?" 

And  Coira  O'Hara,  holding  a  candle  in  her  hand,  came 
upon  the  stair-landing  and  stood  gazing  down  into  the 
darkness.  She  wore  a  sort  of  dressing-gown,  a  heavy 
white  garment  which  hung  in  straight,  long  folds  to  her 
feet  and  fell  away  from  the  arm  that  held  the  candle  on  high. 
The  yellow  beams  of  light  struck  down  across  her  head  and 
face,  and  even  at  the  distance  the  man  could  see  how 
white  she  was  and  hollow-eyed  and  worn — a  pale  wraith 
of  the  splendid  beauty  that  had  walked  in  the  garden  at 
La  Lierre. 

"Who  is  there,  please  ?"  she  asked  again.  "I  can't  see. 
What  is  it?" 

"It  is  I,  Coira!"  said  Ste.  Marie. 

And  she  gave  a  sharp  cry.     The  arm  which  was  holding 

353 


JASON 

the  candle  overhead  shook  and  fell  beside  her  as  if  the 
strength  had  gone  out  of  it.  The  candle  dropped  to  the 
floor,  spluttered  there  for  an  instant  and  went  out,  but  there 
was  still  a  little  light  from  the  hall  above. 

Ste.  Marie  sprang  up  the  stairs  to  where  the  girl  stood, 
and  caught  her  in  his  arms,  for  she  was  on  the  verge  of 
faintness.  Her  head  fell  back  away  from  him,  and  he  saw 
her  eyes  through  half-closed  lids,  her  white  teeth  through 
parted  lips.  She  was  trembling — but,  for  that  matter,  so 
was  he  at  the  touch  of  her,  the  heavy  and  sweet  burden  in 
his  arms.  She  tried  to  speak,  and  he  heard  a  whisper: 

"Why?     Why?     Why?" 

"Because  it  is  my  place,  Coira!"  said  he.  "Because  I 
cannot  live  away  from  you.  Because  we  belong  together." 

The  girl  struggled  weakly  and  pushed  against  him. 
Once  more  he  heard  whispering  words  and  made  out  that 
she  tried  to  say: 

"Go  back  to  her!     Go  back  to  her!     You  belong  there!" 

But  at  that  he  laughed  aloud. 

"I  thought  so,  too,"  said  he,  "but  she  thinks  other 
wise.  She'll  have  none  of  me,  Coira.  It's  Richard  Hart 
ley  now.  Coira,  can  you  love  a  jilted  man  ?  I've  been 
jilted — thrown  over — dismissed." 

Her  head  came  up  in  a  flash  and  she  stared  at  him,  sud 
denly  rigid  and  tense  in  his  arms. 

"Is  that  true  ?"  she  demanded. 

"Yes,  my  love!"  said  he. 

And  she  began  to  weep,  with  long,  comfortable  sobs,  her 
face  hidden  in  the  hollow  of  his  shoulder.  On  one  other 
occasion  she  had  wept  before  him,  and  he  had  been  horribly 
embarrassed,  but  he  bore  this  present  tempest  without,  as 
it  were,  winking.  He  gloried  in  it.  He  tried  to  say  so. 

354 


JASON 

He  tried  to  whisper  to  her,  his  lips  pressed  close  to  the  ear 
that  was  nearest  them,  but  he  found  that  he  had  no  speech. 
Words  would  not  come  to  his  tongue;  it  trembled  and 
faltered  and  was  still  for  sheer  inadequacy. 

Rather  oddly,  in  that  his  thoughts  were  chaos,  swallowed 
up  in  the  surge  of  feeling,  a  memory  struck  through  to  him 
of  that  other  exaltation  which  had  swept  him  to  the  stars. 
He  looked  upon  it  and  was  amazed  because  now  he  saw 
it,  in  clear  light,  for  the  thing  it  had  been.  He  saw  it  for 
a  fantasy,  a  self-evoked  wraith  of  the  imagination,  a  dizzy 
flight  of  the  spirit  through  spirit  space.  He  saw  that  it 
had  not  been  love  at  all,  and  he  realized  how  little  a  part 
Helen  Benham  had  ever  really  played  in  it.  A  cold  and 
still-eyed  figure  for  him  to  wrap  the  veil  of  his  imagination 
round,  that  was  what  she  had  been.  There  were  times 
when  the  sweep  of  his  upward  flight  had  stirred  her  a  little, 
wakened  in  her  some  vague  response,  but  for  the  most  part 
she  had  stood  aside  and  looked  on,  wondering. 

The  mist  was  rent  away  from  that  rainbow-painted  cob 
web,  and  at  last  the  man  saw  and  understood.  He  gave  an 
exclamation  of  wonder,  and  the  girl  who  loved  him  raised 
her  head  once  more,  and  the  two  looked  each  into  the  other's 
eyes  for  a  long  time.  They  fell  into  hushed  and  broken 
speech. 

"I  have  loved  you  so  long,  so  long,"  she  said,  "and  so 
hopelessly!  I  never  thought — I  never  believed.  To  think 
that  in  the  end  you  have  come  to  me!  I  cannot  believe  it!" 

"Wait  and  see!"  cried  the  man.     "Wait  and  see!" 

She  shivered  a  little.  "If  it  is  not  true  I  should  like  to  die 
before  I  find  out.  I  should  like  to  die  now,  Bayard,  with 
your  arms  holding  me  up  and  your  eyes  close,  close." 

Ste.  Marie's  arms  tightened  round  her  with  a  sudden 
355 


JASON 

fierceness.  He  hurt  her,  and  she  smiled  up  at  him.  Their 
two  hearts  beat  one  against  the  other,  and  they  beat  very 
fast. 

"Don't  you  understand,"  he  cried,  "that  life's  only  just 
beginning — day's  just  dawning,  Coira  ?  We've  been  lost  in 
the  dark.  Day's  coming  now.  This  is  only  the  sunrise." 

"I  can  believe  it  at  last,"  she  said,  "because  you  hold  me 
close  and  you  hurt  me  a  little,  and  I'm  glad  to  be  hurt- 
And  I  can  feel  your  heart  beating.  Ah,  never  let  me  go, 
Bayard!  I  should  be  lost  in  the  dark  again  if  you  let  me 
go."  A  sudden  thought  came  to  her,  and  she  bent  back 
her  head  to  see  the  better.  "Did  you  speak  with  Arthur  ?" 

And  he  said:  "Yes.  He  asked  me  to  read  your  note,  so 
I  read  it.  That  poor  lad!  I  came  straight  to  you  then — 
straight  and  fast." 

"You  knew  why  I  did  it  ?"  she  said,  and  Ste.  Marie  said: 

"Now  I  know." 

"I  could  not  have  married  him,"  said  she.  "I  could  not. 
I  never  thought  I  should  see  you  again,  but  I  loved  you  and 
I  could  not  have  married  him.  Ah,  impossible!  And  he'll 
be  glad  later  on.  You  know  that.  It  will  save  him  any 
more  trouble  with  his  family,  and  besides — he's  so  very 
young.  Already,  I  think,  he  was  beginning  to  chafe  a  little. 
I  thought  so  more  than  once.  Oh,  I'm  trying  to  justify 
myself !"  she  cried.  "I'm  tiying  to  find  reasons;  but  you 
know  the  true  reason.  You  know  it." 

"I  thank  God  for  it,"  he  said. 

So  they  stood  clinging  together  in  that  dim  place,  and 
broken,  whispering  speech  passed  between  them  or  long 
silences  when  speech  was  done.  But  at  last  they  went  down 
the  stairs  and  out  upon  the  open  terrace,  where  the  moonlight 
lay. 

356 


JASON 

"It  was  in  the  open,  sweet  air,"  the  girl  said,  "that  we 
came  to  know  each  other.  Let  us  walk  in  it  now.  The 
house  smothers  me."  She  looked  up  when  they  had  passed 
the  west  corner  of  the  facade  and  drew  a  little  sigh.  "I  am 
worried  about  my  father,"  said  she.  "He  will  not  answer 
me  when  I  call  to  him,  and  he  has  eaten  nothing  all  day 
long.  Bayard,  I  think  his  heart  is  broken.  Ah,  but  to 
morrow  we  shall  mend  it  again!  In  the  morning  I  shall 
make  him  let  me  in,  and  I  shall  tell  him — what  I  have  to 
tell." 

They  turned  down  under  the  trees,  where  the  moonlight 
made  silver  splashes  about  their  feet,  and  the  sweet  night 
air  bore  soft  against  their  faces.  Coira  went  a  half-step  in 
advance,  her  head  laid  back  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  man 
she  loved,  and  his  arm  held  her  up  from  falling. 

So  at  last  we  leave  them,  walking  there  in  the  tender 
moonlight,  with  the  breath  of  roses  about  them  and  their 
eyes  turned  to  the  coming  day.  It  is  still  night  and  there 
is  yet  one  cloud  of  sorrow  to  shadow  them  somewhat,  for  up 
stairs  in  his  locked  room  a  man  lies  dead  across  the  floor, 
with  an  empty  pistol  beside  him — heart-broken,  as  the  girl 
had  feared.  But  where  a  great  love  is,  shadows  cannot  last 
very  long,  not  even  such  shadows  as  this.  The  morning 
must  dawn — and  joy  cometh  of  a  morning. 

So  we  leave  them  walking  together  in  the  moonlight, 
their  faces  turned  toward  the  coming  day. 


THE    END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


'D  ID-URE 


FEB  22  1978 


Form  L9-Series  4939 


A  A      000248856 


3  1158  00150  5451 
F?68j 


